


Clair de Lune

by Coffee_World, DarkRavenstag



Category: Hannibal (TV), Tokyo Ghoul
Genre: Angst, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Classical Music, Classical References, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Ghouls, Inspired by Tokyo Ghoul, Kagune (Tokyo Ghoul), M/M, Murder, Murder Husbands, Original Character(s), Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Slow Burn, Symbolism, Tags May Change, and then probably to lovers again, basically ghouls are humans but have to cannibalize to live, friends to enemies to lovers to... enemies again?, mostly originals to add some spice, yeah we gay keep scrolling, you don't have to know what tokyo ghoul is
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:08:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26936395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coffee_World/pseuds/Coffee_World, https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkRavenstag/pseuds/DarkRavenstag
Summary: It was without a doubt that Bedelia knew more about Hannibal than anyone else, and yet she knew next to nothing about him. She knew he spun lies, not like a sewist but like an orbweaver spider. It was instinctual and natural, not learned. The web was intricately spun, threads creating mesmerizing designs that were beyond any human comprehension; some theorize that orbweavers went so far as to take into account ultraviolet rays to attract insects — then, in the morning, the web was torn down until the sun set again. Hannibal Lecter tore down his web only to spin another, and not even Bedelia could ever hope to keep track.-Eaters of human flesh, wolves in sheep’s clothing, live alongside humans -- they are known as ghouls. They blend into society and masquerade as humans, unable to eat human food and only being able to survive on human flesh. Will Graham is a teacher in the Ghoul Academy, an academy for humans that study ghouls, having retired years prior from any field work until a ghoul investigator known as Jack Crawford approaches him and asks for his assistance. Before he is able to return to the field, however, Crawford insists he see a psychiatrist regularly, who turns out to be quite the mysterious man.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 10
Kudos: 17





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I have decided I will be publishing this work in full! Thank you for your feedback. Expect chapter updates about weekly from now on :)

They say teachers are angels leading their flocks out of darkness. Whether or not Will Graham believed such a thing was still up in the air, but either way he was perfectly comfortable in his classroom. He liked teaching, because it was so personal and impersonal at the same time — Graham knew all his students’ names, what they were like. But there was a certain distance between himself and his students, a distance he appreciated. A distance he kept between himself and every person in his life. Some might pity him and call it a lonely or pathetic existence, but he pitied the souls that felt they needed others to live a fulfilling life.

Not that he thought he was living a fulfilling life, but that was irrelevant. He used to work out on the field and he was damn good at it, but he had since retired from it. That was a few years ago now, and he was perfectly content staying in the Ghoul Academy. Came to work, did his job, then went home. No overlap. No lost sleep. Just work and then home. That’s the kind of life Will Graham was okay with living, not quite happy but content.

The Ghoul Academy was an institution for human students who wished to study ghouls for any number of reasons — to be ghoul investigators who tracked down ghouls and eliminated them, to be profilers that investigate ghoul crime scenes, or even experts in ghoul anatomy and forensics. Ghouls were heavily persecuted in human society — humans, who heavily outnumbered ghouls, were threatened by their existence. Thus, ghouls were forced to either assimilate or isolate, and any humans who sympathized or aided ghouls were persecuted almost as severely as the fiends themselves. Will had carved himself out a niche here at the academy, teaching ghoul psychology and other methods of interpreting ghoul crimes. He was quite fine here.

That is, until Jack Crawford came into his classroom, fighting against the traffic of his students that were just leaving. Will looked up from his desk and then looked away as he so often did.

“Will Graham, I’d like to borrow your imagination.”


	2. Ave Maria

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal visits Will at his home to discuss their upcoming sessions over breakfast. Will is introduced to his first case.

They mix in with the crowd, eating human flesh. They pretend to be humans, yet they exist differently from them. 

Humans call them ghouls. 

-

Will didn’t put up too much argument. So he was going back to the field — but not without extra precautions in place, Jack Crawford emphasized. Will wasn’t necessarily qualified to be an FBI agent, as he couldn’t pass the mental screening. However, he worked alongside Jack Crawford years ago as a profiler, though quickly his psyche crippled from the pressure of the job. 

The extra precautions in place were as follows: he was to be under close supervision of Crawford himself, and he was to see a psychiatrist regularly during the duration of his time under Jack Crawford. The latter was what gained the most protest from Will, insisting that some psychoanalytic fellow did not know him better than himself, but eventually he agreed. Crawford said he’d be at his house on Saturday, three o’clock. Will asked why it had to be at his house, Crawford responded it might be good for him to do it in a familiar environment. Fine, three o’clock on Saturday it is. 

He wasn’t quite expecting a knock at three o’clock sharp, however. Some were more punctual than others, he supposed. Opening the door, he averted his eyes before he saw anything but _tall_ before him. He swallowed thickly and gripped the doorknob tightly. He was already regretting agreeing to this. 

The man at the door, who was before facing away from the door, examining the porch, took the step to turn back and angled his jaw just… a touch downward to examine his new patient. Will Graham. The man who he had undoubtedly read was woefully undiagnosed — he wouldn’t let a shrink on Earth touch him. No, this relationship was surely not created by Will’s design. Not a chance. The way Will stole away his eyes was not mentioned or implied even by the contents of the file. Notable. Pathological. 

Obviously. He was infamously known for being particularly unstable. Among psychiatrists, famous more than infamous. An object of desire, practically thrust into his hands by mere opportunity. God had a way of amusing himself in these ways.

“Hello, Mr. Graham. Jack didn’t tell me you’d have dogs. I would have brought something for them too, had I known.”

His broad body turned toward the door, two stacked bowls in his hands. Each a ceramic base with a plastic top to keep the food from drying or being contaminated. “May I come in?” Ever the one to keep a downright amicable tone of voice, the man at the door still did not smile. After all, Will wasn’t looking at him, and a smile in the voice came naturally to anybody who tried to create it. It shouldn’t make a difference to a man like will. 

It was impossible not to begin forming connections immediately. Instability… it came with a lot of things. The aversion to eye contact combined with instability, it narrowed the scope, closed the aperture. He could see closer… it immediately brings one’s mind to the autism spectrum, but there could be more. Additional or simply something rather than. And from rumors he’d heard, this man before him was emotionally… well, different. 

Almost always described as psychopathic. 

The doctor had always had his doubts. Psychopaths were seldom unstable… they often did not have the capacity _to_ be. Psychopaths are self-serving, and unless his instability was aimed in that direction, he doubted that that was the talk of the town. His guess? The opposite. An empathy disorder, perhaps combined with or dependent on the spectrum, that was his current working theory. 

Now it was time to investigate. 

Will knew he was the talk of the local psychology community. The eccentric professor that could empathize with anyone — even a ghoul. He was also infamous for not letting a single psychiatrist within thirty feet of him. He still wasn’t sure about this one, clearly not too keen on it by his initial reaction. He screwed up his face, seemingly preparing himself to interact, then stepped aside to let the doctor in. 

“Alright. I just want to let you know, though, Doctor,” he started, screwing his face up again and knitting his brows, “Therapy doesn’t work on me.” 

He finally looked up at the man as he entered his house, two of his dogs sniffing his ankles and the others watching curiously from afar. Will nudged Buster and Emma away from the doctor with his foot, but they insisted on profiling this new stranger. Sniffing him like he was sniffing their owner. 

Will’s eyes landed on the bowls stacked atop one another, curiously following them as they walked by. He closed the door behind the stranger, hand lingering on the knob. 

“I am not like any other psychologist you’ve met… if that comforts you. If it doesn’t, then we don’t need to do therapy at all. I never heard any indication from Jack that we need to do anything besides meet weekly,” the doctor pointed out as he walked, lowering a hand to allow one of the taller dogs — maybe a husky mix — to smell his palm. “Oh, and how rude of me,” he suddenly remembered once the house’s inhabitant followed him to the kitchen, giving Will little time to respond to his musings, “Allow me to introduce myself. Doctor Hannibal Lecter.” 

Maybe by design. Maybe Dr. Lecter was actually a little carried away with analyzing this strange new man. He was taking it so seriously… was he really going to become this distracted over a patient? It had been a long time since he had fixated on a subject like this, but who could blame him? When a new species walks up to a biologist, a specimen of a ten thousand year old man thaws before an anthropologist, an ancient city shakes forth from the ground from under the feet of an archaeologist… why should he not become distracted? 

A hand extended to close the space between them: a shake to unify them. Among the first steps to acquainting oneself with another. Something somebody who didn’t like eye contact might also not appreciate. Something that might indicate pathology. So what would it be, Will? 

Just as the doctor was so closely profiling him, Will was doing the same, only in a vastly different way. He immediately understood him. A psychiatrist that was fascinated by a specimen such as himself, a tale he’d endured since childhood. Will did not distinguish Dr. Lecter from the other psychologists and psychiatrists that tried so hard to profile him and understand him, and when the hand was extended, he did not look pleased at all. He glanced down at the hand, then back up to the doctor, then sat down, seemingly rejecting the gesture. He was rejecting the test, his own little way to tell him that _I know what you’re up to_. 

“You already know my name, doctor. Sit if you want, but I don’t see there being much to discuss.” In fact, he’d quite like it if the doctor would turn around and leave this moment. He was already getting sick of this. 

And yet he agreed to it. It was because in the few years he had reserved himself for a comfortable and quiet life he felt himself dying slowly, wasting away with every night spent quietly and normally. Such was his curse that he couldn’t truly settle for the simple life. He wanted to get back out on the field. He told himself he didn’t miss it and he still didn’t doubt that he didn’t, but what he did miss was how alive he felt when he thought of the killer he caught behind bars — or dead — suffering as a result of their own actions. He was justice once, and he wanted to be justice again. For altruistic reasons, of course. 

“Maybe not from the perspective of a therapist and his patient, but as two functioning adults and professionals with manners and respect for one another, we can talk normally, don’t you think?” His words carried the hint of a bite. A corrective nip to get Will going the right direction, like a heeler at the hocks of cattle. This sort of poor attitude could not be allowed to continue for the sake of their future. 

Hannibal did not seem impacted by the rejection, but was a little internally disappointed that he couldn’t definitively say that Will denied contact out of spite or out of pathological dislike for touch. It was yet to be seen, then. As he sat, he placed a bowl for each of them across from the table from one another. “So. I hope you aren’t vegetarian. I made a protein scramble — rabbit sausage, goose egg, garlic chives, and sweet pepper, in case you have any allergies or restrictions.” He invited himself to sit, and produced two forks of his very own from a cloth wrap in the pocket of his suit. 

Again, he examined Will, keeping a close watch on his behavior, his stress levels — those were already elevated. How could he play with that? Of course, he would eventually have to sate this anxiety, but for today, it would be easier to trigger extreme reactions. Probably. There was no exactly predicting what might happen when a patient had unknown pathology, but was undoubtedly pathological. 

Will just huffed when the doctor returned his bitterness, and he would have been mad if he wasn’t being the asshole first. He’d hear him out, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t stay firm in his belief that people who called themselves psychiatrists were big frauds with fancy certifications. 

“That’s quite. Fancy,” he decided, observing the bowl before pulling it toward himself, taking off the lid gently. Looked as fancy as it sounded. “You made this yourself?” he asked, but it was mainly rhetorical as it already seemed to be so. 

Graham took the fork and poked a curd of egg, observing it curiously. It didn’t look any different from a chicken egg. He bet it wasn’t any different either other than it was a little bigger. 

“Did you know, Dr. Lecter, that most people consume far more protein than they need?” 

“Absolutely, and I don’t doubt that I do myself. As much as I try — and I do try — I still eat a bit more of my fair share of meat. But, well. I’m at the top of the food chain for a reason,” he offered the vaguest of amused smiles to Will before pointing a fork at him. “ _Bon appétit.”_

Something about that made him look amused in passing, but he began to eat anyway. The rabbit sausage was delicious. Among his favorites for a breakfast food, in fact. Lean, a little spicy, and oh, you could almost taste it still running in vain for its life. Kicking up dirt after it keeled. Lots of life, in those rabbits. “Are you interested in nutrition, Mr. Graham?” It seemed obvious to Hannibal that he was not, what with his gaunt cheeks and bags under his eyes, but why not prod him on an unnecessary and rather obviously targeted comment about his breakfast? 

The way he said “Graham” highlighted his accent, if one lingered on it. Two syllables, Gray-ham, not Gram, as one might hear from an American like Jack. Obviously, Hannibal was foreign, if the name didn’t give it away, and his very slight accent might have indicated something European, though it might have been difficult to place exactly where to the untrained ear. Definitely not far western Europe, though he had no trouble with his French. 

Will couldn’t place the accent, really. Not French, because he skipped his r’s rather than gutturalized them, and not Spanish because he didn’t emphasize them or leave a lisp at the edge of his s sounds. Somewhere in eastern Europe probably, from one of those little countries that most Americans hadn’t even heard of, including himself. 

“No, not at all,” he replied pointedly, taking his first bite of the egg. Couldn’t taste the difference, but he supposed he was more of a microwave meals type of guy. He was sure someone with a snobby palate might taste the difference between a goose and chicken egg. He took another bite, the rabbit meat on his fork now. 

“I’ve never had rabbit before,” he admitted. “I’m not sure what I expected, but it’s good.” A psychiatrist and a chef. Not a combination he would have thought of, but he supposed that psychoanalyzing people couldn’t be one’s only hobby. 

“Your compliments are well-received,” the doctor smiled slightly again. “It is among my favorite things to do artistically, to make a dish somebody else is intrigued by. Tell me, Will.” He glanced between the eggs on his fork and Will’s face, his eyes downcast not shyly… no, it was more unwelcoming now than simple distaste for eye contact. Will hadn’t quite shaken the idea that Hannibal was just another one of those damned shrinks that drooled like hyena at the mention of Mr. Graham’s brain. “What sort of things do you enjoy?” 

Dr. Lecter could make a few guesses. The dogs all watching the two of them eat indicated Will’s empathy… his willingness to take in a stray, or many. He liked animals. The fishing poles all lined up along the wall, all for different weights and purposes, no doubt some unused and old and full of memories, not to mention the desk covered in lure bits, shiny things that danced and feathers and string to fashion bait. He liked fishing. The short, blunt words, the dryness, the poor attitude. The glares at the wall and the eyes rolling at his breakfast. He liked to be alone. 

But what would Will actually tell him? A convincing lie? An obvious truth? An obvious lie? A truth meant to see doubt?

Will took a bite of his food again, giving the doctor a little smile as he chewed slowly and deliberately. It was somewhat amused and a little annoyed, not a single part of it genuine. He never liked small talk in the first place, but it was even worse when it was loaded small talk, having to shield his psyche from someone who so desperately wanted to get inside. 

“Fishing. Reading. Exterminating ghouls.” Will set his fork down in the bowl and leaned back. “Two truths and one lie. Which one do you think it is?” 

This wasn’t his idea of fun in the slightest, but he did find a little amusement in playing games with this man. He didn’t take psychiatrists to be all that intelligent or tolerable to be around, and he hardly found Dr. Lecter to be any different. Just well-spoken, but that wasn’t hard to do when born with a silver spoon in one’s mouth. 

There was a pause for consideration. A fake one. Dr. Lecter already knew what he thought the lie was. Fishing… obviously a truth. Unless he simply collected and created fishing paraphernalia for no reason, which just seemed unlikely as it stood. Reading… Will had plenty of books. He was learned, too. A professor, even. Maybe he resented books, it certainly could have been, for all they had done to wrong him. Psychology ones especially. 

“Exterminating ghouls,” he pinned, a final answer. No extreme empath would take joy in ending a life… not one who nestled amongst normal society, like a swan among ducks. Not one influenced by trivial ethical concepts that he did not deserve to have thrust upon him from childhood, and perpetuated amongst his very field of excellence. 

Maybe Will didn’t enjoy it or dislike it. Maybe it just conflicted him. Made him squirm. Made him dislike… something. A negative feedback from his indoctrination as a criminal psychologist, unless he was altogether wrong. There was always the chance that Hannibal was altogether wrong. Nothing was sure in this world. It was why planning was oh, so important to him, and improvisation even more so. 

Will stared a hole through Lecter, though not through his eyes. He swallowed, then smiled again, a little more genuinely this time. He hadn’t expected the doctor to play along, but he did. Just how many games was he willing to play, then? 

“Interesting answer,” he replied, still a little surprised he dignified him with an answer at all. “I will keep it in mind,” he continued, almost singing it as he leaned forward and picked up his fork again. 

His thoughts on Dr. Lecter so far? Maybe not the usual psychiatrist just as he had claimed earlier, but still not worth his time. However, Jack Crawford insisted, and he wasn’t the one paying for this — _is Lecter even getting paid?_ — and so he’d humor him. He thought Dr. Hannibal Lecter was reminiscent of a cat in his quiet elegance. 

Will was more of a dog person, himself. 

“Interesting because I’m wrong or because I’m right?” Dr. Lecter casually forked his eggs to take a bite. “Or because I’m right and everybody else is wrong?”

He smirked to himself, before he continued. Time to push some buttons. “Everybody else thinks you’re without empathy, if I’m not mistaken,” Hannibal was not mistaken. “But it’s clear as day that you aren’t apathetic, you’re hyper-empathetic. It makes me wonder how many professionals you’ve spoken to even for this long… and it’s only been five, ten minutes for us.”

Will could really fight them off, couldn’t he? 

It could always just be that Hannibal was on a level separating himself from what most would consider his peers. Always an option worth reevaluating, as it was his word versus that of the world’s, but… he had to be honest with himself. His word held more weight than the world’s. So far, only God had ever bested him. The world had yet to breach that stage. 

“I don’t appreciate being analyzed, if you couldn’t tell.” Will looked up, observing the man as he psychoanalyzed him as he so hated. “You shouldn’t get full of yourself already. I don’t plan to make it easy for you. I don’t plan for you to get inside of my head at all. In fact, if this wasn’t required for me to get back out into the field, then you would be on your way already like every other psychiatrist that’s tried to crack my case, so to speak.” He quickly and firmly established their relationship. His bluntness might imply a lack of empathy as well. It was clear he intentionally didn’t want to be predictable. 

But to Hannibal? He was trying too hard. 

Will was still doubting himself, however. He wasn’t sure if he was prepared to go back into the field, as the last time had ended in him being discharged after exhibiting unstable behavior — more than usual, that is. It wasn’t his choice to quit, but he convinced himself he was happier in the classroom, which worked out alright. Will was still left with an unstable sense of himself and his identity. He didn’t _know_ if he was happier, he didn’t know at all what was best for himself. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to know. 

And this was apparently how Dr. Lecter came in. He didn’t trust a psychiatrist would help him find himself at all, and so he would keep him firmly locked out. He especially wouldn’t let such a smug man with such confidence that he could break through in. Maybe he’d find himself in the process of desperately keeping the doctor out. 

Dr. Lecter didn’t come prepared with a shovel to broach Will’s mental walls. He came with only the most silent, subtle, and effective of industrial equipment… plus some hidden explosives, for flavor. There was more than one way to get inside a head. 

For now it was pushing, and it seemed with even just a gentle press, Will thrashed for freedom. No wonder nobody with conventional, ethical methods could touch him. What would happen when Hannibal pushed Will? Frightened him? 

“I already know things about you, Will. I don’t need to sit with you for an hour to know that you don’t like eye contact… Not for a lack of social skills or any such. It’s deliberate — eyes are the windows to the soul, as they say. Seeing too many eyes, it would be like trying to have a conversation in a room full of shouting people… it’s overstimulating you,” he predicted with the confidence of a stone cold professional, and the gaze of a stone cold killer. His friendly movement, eating, was replaced with the pressure of stillness and a curiously still gaze. 

Will didn’t seem all that affected by the firm gaze. He didn’t seem intimidated by Dr. Lecter at all as most others would be. Whether or not his observation was correct was something even Will didn’t know, but his eyes lifted to meet the doctor’s cold gaze. He _could_ meet his eyes, it seemed Graham had no trouble at all with that. 

“It would make sense, wouldn’t it? It doesn’t help that I think eyes are distracting. Yours are… well, they’re cutting through me right now. Reminds me of a ghoul without an ounce of remorse for his nature or his crimes. What do you think, Dr. Lecter, do you think ghouls have feelings? Do they care about their prey, and if they do, does it make it better or worse?” 

He pushed up his glasses with a knuckle, then cast his gaze downward again, taking another bite. Will never told the doctor if he was right or wrong, only what he thought of the observations. 

His eyelids constricted in a manner that almost mimicked a smile, but simultaneously entertained the idea of a grimace as well. Amusement, or maybe annoyance, or even just concentration. “I think that very much depends on the ghoul, Mr. Graham,” replied Dr. Lecter cooly. “As for feelings… I frankly think it foolish to deny ghouls’ capacity for emotion. Just like us, the ghoul’s brain processes hunger before it begins to consider factoring in empathy. Do you feel bad for the rabbit you eat now, Mr. Graham? Do you feel like a psychopath for not feeling bad?” His amusement was more clear now; Dr. Lecter took another bite, his lips curled devilishly. 

“But. I think the better person to ask is you.” Hannibal leaned back in his seat, setting his fork in the empty bowl before him and covering it back up to clean at home. Not the sort of man to be caught with something stuck to his lip, he wiped his face with a handkerchief from a pocket on his chest. “You’re the forensic profiler,” he carried on after he was sure he was clean. “Ghouls aren’t your only job to profile, but you’ve certainly worked with your share. Do ghouls have feelings, Mr. Graham?”

The cattish look in his eyes hadn’t left. Though he had eaten, his mind hungered for something greater than physical satisfaction. It wanted more of Will. It grasped for more of his deflection, snagging words on its claws to investigate closely. No confirmation, no denial, but stress… stress got results. There was his key. 

Will leaned back, crossing his arms. “I think ghouls have emotions. Same as humans. They can’t just all be convincing actors,” he explained. “The majority of the killers I encounter are ghouls, but not all. Most ghouls only kill a few times in their whole lifetime, scraping by from grave robbing and other illegitimate ways of acquiring bodies. But some… it’s hard to make a point that any of them have feelings with the atrocities they commit. About one percent of ghouls make up half of all murders. They come up with creative ways to kill and torture their future meals, and rumors of gruesome ghoul restaurants and human auctions aren’t unheard of.” 

He watched Hannibal curiously. Most people would have accused him for being a ghoul sympathizer by now, but the doctor only agreed with him. Not too bad a listener, he’d give him that.

“Then there’s the humans. They kill and sell the meat to ghouls, or mask their crimes by making it look like a ghoul killed their victim… it’s more common than you think. I think the real question is, do humans have any more feelings than ghouls?” 

Blinking a couple of times pensively, the therapist leaned back. “I think we will find an answer together… while you work closely with the FBI, so do I, and on similar matters. I’m sure you know that ghoul psychology is, well… controversial and new. But somebody must tackle it, no?” He folded the handkerchief in his palm, and tucked it back in his pocket. 

“They have deemed it valuable to their efforts to have a psychologist work with them in the forensic profiling department, and so here I am to spearhead. I get to write about my findings, they get to use my skills. Everybody benefits but ghoulkind.” The last sentence was embedded in a wistful sigh. It felt like a lie, almost… but Hannibal wasn’t lying. Psychology benefited and was a detriment to the human race. Allowed for routes to understanding ourselves, but securing distinct, manipulable flaws. 

His work with the FBI might have been his main goal, even. It would look bad, perhaps even be seen as a mismanagement of resources to just hire a high-profile psychologist to analyze creatures more often seen as less than animals than comparable to humans. Maybe it just worked out this way, but maybe Will was just an excuse to employ Dr. Lecter’s talents. Maybe the benefits, Hannibal’s work and Will’s work and the research, simply were pushed into alignment by God, who sought amusement. 

Wind them up, watch them go.

Will reached down as one of his dogs approached him, petting him quietly as he gazed out the window beside them both. “Maybe we will.” He was curious about the true nature of ghouls — always had been. While he could empathize with their motives and the steps they took to commit their crimes, he still didn’t understand them. The true nature of ghouls and humans were still a mystery to both Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter, but it seemed they formed an uneasy alliance in this silent revelation. 

“I suppose we’ll see what you can do on the crime scene for us. You must be interested in ghoul psychology if you’re doing this… bold of you, it’s probably a detriment to your career,” he commented. “Not many people would want to visit a ghoul psychologist. What if you turn out to be a ghoul?” He shook his head, slightly amused at the thought. 

People were mortified of ghouls, probably rightfully so. Will wasn’t any more afraid of them than he was of any other person, and despite teaching about and witnessing the atrocities that they committed in his career, he still believed that ghouls’ biggest flaw is their resemblance to man. 

“I don’t need many clients… you’re among just a few. If you would even like therapy, that is,” said the taller man, his chin angled down and his eyes angled up to just… watch. Dr. Lecter had few reservations about his research. Especially when he had access to high-security ghoul prisons under clearance of the FBI… and access therefore to ghouls. A simple thing to not mention to Will. 

Very little of what he was doing now was going on a widely available record anyway. What the world would know would be what he published to it. His reputation among psychologists had gone untainted so long, especially among the less orthodox sorts, of which there were plenty. Ghoul research was thrilling to all, whether they admitted it or not. Everybody had the same questions, but nobody had the information to answer. Hannibal was among just a few to begin to answer these questions. 

He lifted his chin just to tap it, before wondering aloud, “but I don’t see how it would make me a ghoul in anybody’s mind. It never has before. Are you suspicious of such a thing?” 

“I’m _always_ suspicious, doctor. You should be too. Anyone can be a ghoul.” Will was especially good at telling ghouls from humans, though he had no indication so far that the psychiatrist might be a ghoul. After all, he doubted he would go through such effort to cook extravagant meals with human food if he were a ghoul. Or… well, maybe he would. It wasn’t at all customary to bring food to a patient’s house, especially when first meeting them, though the man still didn’t come across as a ghoul.

“But don’t get me wrong. I think the research is necessary. Good, even.” Will didn’t necessarily feel all that bad for ghouls, but anything that would reduce suffering and cruelty in this world was good in his eyes. 

Now he got to wondering what the goal of this man might be. Of course, if he asked, the answer would probably be _knowledge_ , but it was unlikely such a thing was true. “I wonder what the FBI would want to do with a psychiatrist. You must work with them in other ways.”  
“Research,” he answered simply. “I’m not going to just be working on the field. I’ll be in the coroner’s, the holding facilities and prisons, interviewing those who knew the ghouls. I’ll be quite busy,” he assured. “Ghoul research is a passion of mine, a passion among many. I’m sure you’ll want my findings shared with you; we share this passion.”  
Hannibal Lecter had all the mannerisms of a confident person. He ate normally, not close to his chest, but not with his elbows on the table or leaning forward. Obviously, he was a very well-mannered man with exceptional table etiquette, even for a man with an intimate understanding of human nature and behavior… and ghoul nature and behavior. They were the same, after all. Ghouls and humans, humans and ghouls. No better an example of coevolution than a predator that perfectly mimics its prey. A ghoul looks and behaves indistinguishably from a human. Even the teeth, evolved in humans to tear and grind plants, remained the same in ghouls. The only difference in their use was intrinsic. The teeth and jaws of a ghoul were stronger, and the incisors repurposed for tearing flesh. 

The organs were all there, even, and all identical. The only difference anatomically between them was the presence of a few extra organs: ones used for predating. A gland on their back that carried the name given to them in Japan, the original spearhead of ghoul defense research, the _kakuhou_ , from which the _kagune_ emerged. The kagune took many forms, all of them a deadly accessory to hunting and that left specific indications behind after a kill. Along with that, every ghoul had _kakugan_ , an effect that darkened their eyes to a severe black and red, caused by a surge in the use of RC cells, a type of cell also used in humans in lesser amounts.  
Will was definitely right that anybody could be a ghoul. “You’re right to be cautious,” he continued. “In our line of work… how many people have you had turn out to be ghouls, personally? I had more than my fair share of patients.” He said this neutrally, flat-faced, gauging Will’s own reactions to what he said.

“You have access to the holding facilities,” he restated, seeming a bit shocked. He seemed a little displeased as well, not too good at hiding what he was thinking. “I don’t even have access to the ghoul prisons. Have you gone there yet?” The existence of the prison, _Cochlea_ , was almost mythological in nature. It was highly disputed among the public, to which no official statement has been made confirming or denying its existence. Will knew it existed… he’d seen it before. Before he was fired for being unable to kill ghouls, he had seen a glimpse of the prison. He didn’t know what it was there for or how long they stayed, but it pissed him off just a little that some no-name psychiatrist could walk in whenever he liked. 

"No, I haven't been yet. I am anxious to begin my studies, however," came the polite reply that interrupted Will's train of thought briefly. A smile accompanied it, small and almost dismissive of the topic, since he had little more to say. 

Apparently.

That was alright. Will knew that if he somehow found himself down there, it would break him. He didn’t want to know what was down there, what kind of ghouls they decided should live. 

“I’ve never had anyone I know turn out to be a ghoul. Possibly because I don’t… _know_ many people. That, or their covers haven’t been blown yet. The point is to not be discovered as a ghoul, after all.” 

Hannibal's expression, like many he wore, was unidentifiable. Somewhere vaguely between amusement, thoughtfulness, and neutrality lingered his face, and though the brain behind his eyes did wander, it was never lost. "It certainly is," agreed Lecter. "I've always thought it was so strange, the way we oppress our predator. A society of rabbits unable to see the wolves among us. Then again, I don't think we could exist any other way." 

Straightening the lapels of his worsted suit jacket, the doctor sat up, straightening himself for a change of conversation. "Did you enjoy your breakfast, Mr. Graham? I enjoy serving friends for dinner, so expect invitations to come and eat with me often." Why did Hannibal sound just a little amused? Maybe it was the face Will was making, his nose scrunched up and his brow a little too focused. 

Will watched the doctor. Why did he say it like that? Freak. “It was good. The rabbit you used has my dogs all riled up, so I should be getting to making their food.” He stood, and as soon as he started toward the cupboard, his dogs all tripped over one another, panting with excitement. “Has it been an hour, Dr. Lecter? Anything else you need to cover before you’re on your way?” 

“No, Mr. Graham, that’s just about all.” Stacking and closing Will’s bowl and stacking it atop his own, the doctor stood and turned himself to face Will, an important facet of maintaining social control. To tilt the body away from somebody while speaking to them indicates that the person being spoken to is not completely welcome in the conversation, while angling the feet and shoulders in their direction made them feel addressed. Hannibal wanted confrontation with Graham, lingered outside his front door waiting to be let in. “I just thought I would meet you outside the professional setting before we got to the nitty-gritty of things,” he determined with a finality.  
As he began toward the door, he expected Will to follow him, though his expectation didn’t matter much, as he continued talking at a volume that could still be heard from the kitchen. “Your appointments are still scheduled for seven o’ clock every Thursday per Jack’s authority, but the date and time can be changed to suit your needs should they change. Please don’t hesitate to contact me should you need help or just an ear to be lent.” This whole bit sounded rehearsed and professional as he looked over his shoulder and noted all the fluffy tails milling about in the living room and kitchen. Such a cozy house, especially when filled with all of Mr. Graham’s assorted strays.

“Of course, Dr. Lecter,” he replied, seeming more lax now the man was on his way and he was surrounded by dogs. He watched the psychiatrist go from the kitchen with his all-too-focused look, stewing on what just happened. This wasn’t just any psychiatrist. By observing each of his miniscule mannerisms, Hannibal Lecter had dissected parts of him that even he hadn’t discovered in less than an hour. He wasn’t sure if he was impressed or pissed. 

A frown. "See you in a week, Mr. Graham," he decided as he let himself out, since Will showed no intent to see him to the door. He was sure not to let any dogs out as he excused himself, carefully allowing the door to click behind him. 

It was just Will and the dogs now… finally. At least he didn't have to make himself breakfast, if nothing else.

~~~

Jack Crawford, with his impeccable timing, had interrupted his class halfway through, and while he attempted to protest, it of course ended up with Will getting dragged out of class and to a crime scene an hour away. 

He was silent most of the car ride, a little brooding even. They eventually pulled into the driveway of a high school, which already unsettled Will. He glanced at Jack, but didn’t yet ask, only staring expectantly as they parked. 

Per usual, Jack was the first to break the pregnant silence between them, and did so with a sigh. “If you didn’t guess, you should probably prepare yourself. I know it’s been a while.”

Jack raised his brows for emphasis, as he so often did, and then stepped out of the car and expected Will to follow. Really, he cared that Will was prepared for what he was about to see, and always was, but he needed to involve Will, one of the best. Ghoul activity had spiked in the last months, and the FBI’s resources were spread thinner than ever. “Angela Trowbridge. 42-year-old white female, RC profile indicates that the murder was committed with a rinkaku-type kagune. Throat cut, arm severed relatively cleanly. After death, and closely after. Just the arm, oddly enough. No bite marks or evidence of corpse mutilation besides the arm,” he relayed quick and easy, guiding Will into the front doors of the school and pausing in the staff elevator. “The entry point seems to be a broken window on the third floor. She was attacked in her own classroom, so they knew she’d be there.” 

He had a way of avoiding injecting his own hypothesis into his rundowns just to keep Will’s mind fresh and ready for the crime scene, especially since he was, easily admittedly, not as good as Will at reconstructing a motive or method from the scene. Honestly, he didn’t think one motherfucker on this Earth was as good as Will at his job.

With a too-pleasant ring, the elevator doors slid open and the two of them stepped out. To their left, that familiar yellow tape.

Will slowly approached the scene, shouldering past the rest of the team. A woman — or most of one — was sprawled out on the floor in a pool of her own blood, the flash of a camera sparking her wide-open eyes. He slowly stepped forward even as he was stared at in confusion and shock by the team, his eyes fixated on the corpse. A relatively quick kill, the arm severed after death… he had little doubt it was to spare her pain. His eyes followed the trail of blood from across the classroom, approximating the path the victim took after her throat was slit. The desks were disorderly and many were tipped over, including the teacher’s desk. 

He glanced at an asian woman in a lab coat, crossing his arms as his nose scrunched while he thought. Must have been part of the forensics team. 

“Any fingerprints found anywhere? And is there enough RC cells to determine anything more than the type?” he asked her casually. The looks he was being given told him that Jack didn’t explain to them that the eccentric professor from the academy was going to be allowed onto the crime scene. 

“We have a rough RC count of 1200 from the residue left behind on the site of the wound, so we can safely say our suspect is a ghoul, considering the RC cap for a human is about 500. Other than that, we haven’t got a clear fingerprint, just kagune scores in some of the desks… all characteristic of a rinkaku kagune,” she listed from behind her light blue clinical mask, her latex gloved hands folded in front of her to match. Her eyes, a remarkably light brown, flashed over the newbie, almost suspiciously. “No DNA found so far either, not even hair. They were pretty careful,” she finished. “So, are you that guy Jack was bringing on? Mr. Gray, or something?” 

Jack had a habit of talking about Will, and it definitely showed… in fact, Jack sort of hoped Will didn’t go around talking to too many more people. It might be a little embarrassing for both of them for him to find that Jack had… well, warned a couple of people of Will’s presence. Making himself known from behind Will, Jack corrected the forensic examiner. “Graham. Will, this is Naam, from our forensics team. Naam, Will,” he formally introduced, to which the young, black-haired woman flashed a polite, barely discernible smile, as the mask obscured her lips and the smile itself barely reached her eyes. 

Free from her inhibitions, Naam carried on professionally. “In that case, welcome aboard. The only thing they weren’t careful with was the way they used their kagune. They even let the arm drip blood after cutting it off so they left less of a trail. The rooms on the third story don’t have security cameras, but the halls have cameras looking in. Unfortunately, it didn’t leave us with much but a few pixels of red rinkaku and the victim herself as she took her last steps, since the door was closed,” she gestured to the entrance of the room. 

Will gave her a small nod, eyes tracing the dry trail of blood. It wasn’t dark enough to have been any earlier than this afternoon, the teacher clearly murdered while she was alone in her room after school. “Only a rinkaku could make that kind of a jump,” he confirmed. Walking slowly to the broken window, he looked through the shattered glass, appearing to be deep in thought. 

“The perpetrator would have had to know what window to crash through,” he said aloud. The school was littered with windows, yet only one contained a school teacher sitting alone in her room. “Has to know her habits, too. This person… they wanted her dead. A student, maybe.” 

He turned to look at the woman’s desk, which was flipped over, her chair pushed up against the whiteboard as if she stood in a panic. She was sitting in her chair before the killer crashed through, and in shock she stood, then stumbled behind another overturned desk. 

Will glanced to the body again. “Mrs. Trowbridge was killed quickly, then dismembered after death. The killer waited for her to die before taking the arm… wanted her dead, but didn’t want her to suffer.” 

Jack seemed unphased, while Naam was wide-eyed, glancing between the two of them. “I… don’t think I’ve ever met a criminal profiler like you,” was her brief, and yet telling summary, her gloved hands lifting in a sort of strange defeat. This Will guy was obviously suited for the job. That is, as long as he remained stable.

To carry on, Jack continued. “So, what? He wanted her dead, but didn’t want her to stuffer, and yet only took a small portion of her to eat? That’ s not characteristic of a ghoul who’s hungry, or one who’s out for revenge. Emotionally motivated, but no mutilation beyond… what can reasonably be assumed is for food,” he stoked Will’s mind like a fire, trying to provoke thought like fresh air provoked flame. After all, this was their third baffling kill so far, with no leads, all with a rinkaku, all linked with a single rough amputation. The reason they called in Will to begin with. 

Crossing his arms, the director tapped his bicep. Now, it seemed Will was right back on his game, without a break in his stride. For a fellow who was basically… well, famous and infamous for being, to put it frankly and unkindly, a freakshow, Mr. Graham was an exceptional professional, excelled at what he did, and saved his mental breakdowns for the unprofessional scene. However, based on the toll their last work took on Mr. Graham, therapy might just be the answer they both needed. Even if Will practically needed it funnelled down his throat.

Another forensic examiner dressed in a white coat and gloves, a black haired man this time, watched silently, seemingly intrigued by the new profiler. He certainly seemed… as unusual as he was said to be, but he could always appreciate a man that could do his job. 

Will looked to the jellied eyes of the teacher and crossed his arms, thinking silently. Ghouls were not known for their clean kills and careful amputations — oftentimes a rough stab through the stomach or chest did the job, but instead this ghoul chose to slit the throat methodically and slice off the arm like a butcher. 

“This isn’t an ordinary ghoul. Maybe they’re appeasing someone, maybe they’re sending a message. Whoever did this didn’t do this for food… there’s something else going on here.” Now he just needed to know _what_ exactly. “If all the other murders were the same, then it’s serving some kind of purpose.” He had to think… what would he use an arm for? He supposed it would make a nice gift for a ghoul friend, wouldn’t it? A lovely dinner for two, separated at the elbow and the fingers snacked on like shrimp, thick blood a fine enough substitute for cocktail sauce. 

“An arm might last a ghoul a couple of days, but the killings in this manner were done further apart than a few days. It’s… it’s an offering.” 

“An offering,” echoed Jack, who readjusted his stance at this revelation. “An offering to who, or what? Another ghoul? Why not… take more than a morsel per body? Or is the murder itself part of that offering?” 

Not head of the Behavioral Science Unit for no reason, Jack was pretty damn good at his job too. Will was exceptional, but the BSU functioned fine without him. He was best considered a… an asset, an extra shiny, special cog in the well-oiled FBI machine. One that probably held a temporary place in the machine, but a place nonetheless. Jack was the engine that directed the entire operation, and directed it goddamn well. 

Only issue being… well, the FBI couldn’t be fucked to provide the necessary resources, and the branch was subsisting on fumes. They needed a crutch to lean on right now, just to get back on their feet. After that, maybe Will had a future here, if that therapy did what it was meant to. For now, though, the arrangement was meant to be temporary, subsistent. 

“In that case, could it even be for a… revered person, an idol? A god?”

Resting a hand on his chin, he contemplated the question. “No, no. Someone… close. It’s an act of intimacy. A disciple would bring the whole body. A lover, or a child, or something, only needs to bring an arm or a leg because they don’t need anything more. Maybe it’s for fun.” 

It was only seconds on the crime scene before Will Graham lost himself in the mind of a murderer again. There was no stopping or repressing it, the only way for his ability to work was for him to allow it to consume him. And that he did. The moment he saw the shattered window on the third floor and the blood smeared across a school teacher’s favorite literary quotes was the moment he became one with the ghoul set out to appease someone. 

He hadn’t planned to ever do this again. He had never fully pieced himself back together again after the last time had thoroughly broken him, but here he was. Supposedly it was fine, because he’d be seeing that fancy, overdressed psychiatrist every Thursday. Will knew what he was getting into, and he knew that there was no turning back precisely at this point. 

Carefully, Jack examined Will while the profiler just… receded back into his mind as he tended to do. A mild reaction to the case, considering how deeply he could empathize with human and ghoul murderers alike, no matter how mindless and gruesome it looked from the outside. It was a goddamn superpower, as far as he was concerned, but this same look Will had on brought with it the idea that maybe it was a curse too. Poor bastard, Will. 

“Maybe so. The previous linked murders were similar to this… clean kill, mutilated after death, just one limb missing. So far, no suspects, but this seems… personal, like you said. This woman was a target,” he agreed, examining the now-busy scene, bustling with forensics team members, the flash of a camera, the arrangement and labeling of evidence, busy worker bees dusting for fingerprints, before turning to Will to continue. “I’ll get you the files for the prior murders when we get back to my office.”

“And… you’ll have your first appointment today, right? I told Doctor Lecter to have you on the schedule today.”

Just as Lecter had mentioned, per Jack, their first session was today, and like with most things, Jack was immovable on the topic. 

Will looked at the analog clock still ticking in the room, unsurprisingly splattered with blood. “In an hour,” he replied, the timing only processing just now. More or less, he was already late. With a sigh, he stepped aside to let a photographer by, finding that he was more or less in the way. 

“You won’t have time, then. Get to your appointment, and we can start again first thing tomorrow.”

He looked to Jack and then the door. “I guess we should be on our way, then. I’ll pick up those files as soon as possible,” he told the man as he walked past him. He would need more time to think on it anyway… he had seen all he needed to see. 

It was a bit unusual for Will to lose track of time in such a way, but it was likely he was spending much more time standing in silence thinking than he thought he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!!! We have quite a bit written out, about 30 pages so far, and I'm quite excited to begin this project. It's planned out pretty far, and hopefully it will fill the gap in my heart left unfilled by season 4 :(


	3. King David, the Prophet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will and Hannibal have their first therapy session; Hannibal and Bedelia discuss Will Graham.

Will sat in the car just outside of the doctor’s house for a good minute before he got out, mentally preparing himself for what was to come. Dread picked at him as he walked up to the wooden door in the waiting room and knocked. He glanced at his watch. _6:07_. Not too terribly late, he supposed. 

Hannibal was quick to answer the door, as though he was lingering nearby, and offered a polite smile as he did. With a dip of his head, he greeted his patient softly. “Mr. Graham.” Formal. The name one used for another person, the way they said it, and how often… all factors which impacted the person whose name was said. In this case, the formality put the guise of a respectful distance between them, and evaluated boundaries: after all, Will had not allowed him a first name basis. Not yet. Not that Hannibal needed one, but certain gears must move slowly for other, equally influential gears to move quicker. Just like Will himself, he knew the mind well. There’s no turning those sorts of things off.

“Please come in, make yourself comfortable.” Not have a seat, not a direction, just a welcome. He stepped to the side and behind the door, his sharply suited self hiding away behind the dark, glossy hardwood. 

Shutting the door behind Will granted him a better view of the neutral navy suit, silver accents, and black tie and boots the doctor wore. It was without flaw, ironed impeccably and fitted acutely — how much did it cost? Was it a deceptive fabric, or was it a legitimately expensive suit? What did the little pin on his lapel mean, or was it just a nice thing to fix on to loosen the aggression of formalwear, providing an element of asymmetry to an otherwise perfect image?

Will stepped inside, looking around the room slowly as he walked past the psychiatrist. An elegant place indeed, with light carefully and sparingly placed to highlight paintings and pictures hung around the room, a muted color palette with dark wood accents, and minimal, symmetrical furniture, it was not unlike the doctor that resided there: elegant and meticulous. His attention was brought to the loft stocked with bookshelves, the man wondering to himself what kind of books Dr. Lecter kept up there. He supposed it would be a mix of academia and classics, Homer and Tolstoy undoubtedly sorted somewhere in those dark shelves, but perhaps in time he would learn. 

Hands tucked into his pockets, he walked slowly to observe the statues and pieces of art along the walls. He stopped to look over the dark statue of an elk, of which he thought was vaguely out of place in the otherwise minimalist, sleek design of the office. 

“Jack Crawford just brought me back from the first crime scene. Middle aged English teacher killed in her classroom. Throat slit by a rinkaku, arm cleanly amputated after death,” he suddenly began with, not-so-subtly in an effort to keep the topic off himself if only for a bit. 

“An exciting start to our session,” commented the doctor, amused as he turned on a heel. He gracefully and strangely quietly made his way to one of two glossy leather chairs to sit, his back as straight as it was when he stood, not one to be caught slouching. “It sounds interesting. If it was a ghoul, why take an arm only?” It wasn’t an empty comment to call the case interesting, evidently. Doctor Lecter knew what he was talking about, and asked an engaging question. Was it instinct as a therapist, to actively listen, or was it true interest? Therapists could be deceptive like that. Especially an intelligent one like Hannibal. 

Fingers crossed in Lecter’s lap as he watched Will explore and take in his simultaneously homey and professional workplace. Degrees mounted on the walls, books lined the shelves, and everything was polished, cleaned, and organized, but the hardwood floor was cushioned by a gentle rug, ornate plants and statues found their places amongst the shelves, and there was even a fireplace and mantle far behind Hannibal’s desk.

Professional, and yet sociable, gentle enough for embrace. A very delicate, well thought out presentation, like a spider’s web, gently and meticulously fashioned to fit one purpose: his being to make a person feel both welcome, and not as though they were in somebody’s house. 

Regardless of the meticulous blend of comfort and professionalism, it reminded Will too much of his childhood spent in sleek, sterile offices, degrees and certifications hung up with bookshelves of dull old academia pressed up against the walls. The green used on the pillars and accents of the walls was most peculiar; it made him think of all the other green things he ever saw — not the pleasant green things like grass or stems of flowers, but the old, foul green things. Mrs. Trowbridge was wearing green, stained with the same color crimson as the wallpaper in this very office. 

Will turned, hands behind his back, though still didn’t look to the doctor. “The killings done in this manner are spread too far apart to be done for sustenance. It’s being done for another reason. An arm, it’s… it’s a dinner for two. For two ghouls that don’t need a full body. Is it not plenty for one sitting? It’s a gift. A gift for someone that already has access to enough human meat to sustain themselves otherwise.” 

It was still in development, but Will was absolutely certain that it had nothing to do with keeping anyone fed. If anything it was recreational, perhaps done to train a young ghoul. It irked him, however — how wasteful and dismissive of human life. 

“Why risk outing themselves with a series of killings if they already have enough to eat? Is it carelessness, or attention-seeking, do you think?” It definitely wasn’t the typical sort of conversation one might think to have with their therapist, and made it obvious that Will was dodging what they should really be talking about.

But what did Jack think they were going to talk about, exactly? Normal therapy wasn’t… practical, with Will, at least from Doctor Lecter’s perspective. Now, more than ever, was the time to dip into his less orthodox tactics, and oh the joy of it too. It was always interesting to indulge in such experimentation, and even more so to see the results. Lecter smiled gently and cocked his head, watching as Will drifted around instead of sitting, which, of course, prompted no argument from the psychiatrist. 

It was interesting for Hannibal to finally see Will in full function, his mind grinding away at this mystery in such an exceptional way. A perspective unlike any other, a perspective of many. There was a very good chance that, with such high empathetic intelligence, Will’s mind was like the finest sculpting clay that money could buy. All Hannibal would need is ample time for his therapy to do its work. He couldn’t investigate a mind when its doors were so firmly locked shut.

“It’s hubris.” Will finally wandered over to the chair across from the doctor, sitting down and leaning back in the dark chair. “They’re confident that they won’t get caught. This is an influential ghoul… most ghouls don’t have access to sufficient food to be able to just leave bodies around. This one is high up on the food chain. We’re possibly dealing with the leader of a gang, or someone trying to please the leader of a gang.” 

Will crossed his legs, hands in his lap calmly. “I have access to most ghoul profiles now. Heh,” he suddenly told the doctor. “I wasn’t allowed in the database before. They’re desperate to solve this one. If it’s the leader of a gang, then they’ll be useful to me.” He let his head roll back a bit, the little inkling that Dr. Lecter had access to Cochlea not having left his mind since their last meeting. 

It was clear that Will had become a last ditch effort for Jack Crawford to keep his good name. His intuition was drying up, or so he said in the car, but Will knew what really was the case. Jack had gone through the procedures to allow an uncertified profiler who couldn’t even pass the screenings to have access to one of the world’s largest databases on ghouls — which meant he had a whole lot of faith in Graham. He’d put up with being a pawn if it meant Jack didn’t mind taking the fall if Will… well, lost it again. 

“So Jack’s faith in you has strengthened, Mr. Graham,” prompted Hannibal. “Or, perhaps, faith in himself to keep you in working condition. Surely he isn’t so desperate that he would allow you free reign just for one case, despite the befuddling nature of this particular one.” It was a clinical way to put it, certainly. But to Jack, Will was an asset, and that much was clear to all parties involved. His comments also indicated knowledge of what happened with Jack before… the stress-induced psychological meltdown.

The question, if answered, put Hannibal in a position to begin to understand Mr. Graham, but getting questions answered was only one tenet of his immediate plan. First, find out how far Graham would allow him to question before either recognizing the psychoanalysis taking place or cutting it off when he became uncomfortable. Limits, what were they? Then, depending on how delicate the boundaries were, either push them, or weaken them. 

“Working condition,” he repeated back. “You could put it that way. I actually always _work_ just fine, even if my psyche is crippled. It’s just that it happens to be somewhat morally abhorrent to keep using someone after that point, which is a bit inconvenient for Mr. Crawford.” 

A little treat of how his mind worked for the doctor. He likely didn’t need to be told that, as he would find it out in due time, but Will figured it was obvious enough that it wouldn’t break down any of the walls he had set up ahead of time. 

Will still did not trust the psychiatrist, that much was clear. He kept his face turned, gazing out the window as they spoke, his body language cold and unwelcoming. It was typical of someone on the spectrum, though it seemed he was even more reserved now than he was with any other stranger. 

Still, Will intentionally allowed a short window to peek into his brain. He knew exactly what Doctor Lecter was doing, he was simply permitting things so far. A gentle edge may allow him to move forward, deeper, without damaging anything. “I would imagine that it is. I do believe that Jack Crawford cares for your wellbeing at the same time,” Hannibal clarified, “even if you are his employee and asset.”

“I believe he wants to prevent your discomfort as well as he can manage to, not only from a professional perspective, but from the point of view of a colleague.” The therapist presented the idea, and then paused, allowing Will to respond to it. An agreement, disagreement, or elaboration would all provide him just another little bit of insight without pressing too hard. Despite the fact that Graham refused to look at him, Hannibal’s hands remained politely folded in his lap, his elbows relaxed, and his knees parted, welcoming any stray glances with his warm body language. 

“I don’t doubt that he does,” he agreed. “But the difference is _priority_. Do you think he values anything over his job? Over his reputation?” It was a rhetorical question. It was obvious. If allowed, Will didn’t doubt that Jack would allow a full spiral into insanity if it meant he could keep using him. He should have minded more, but he was desensitized to being used. It was clear Will wasn’t close to a psychopath, since he didn’t stand to gain anything from the situation he put himself into. There was no motive, at least, not any apparent one, and Will Graham would lead you to believe that it was because he wanted to save lives and make the world a better place. 

Whether or not that was true was for Dr. Lecter to decide, and there was plenty of time for him to do so.

“It doesn’t bother you that you are a tool,” Lecter was quick to point out, surprised Will was allowing this open deconstruction still, but certainly was not arguing with it. Will and Doctor Lecter were testing one another equally, doing a dance of shying away from the obvious and then embracing it head-on. It thrilled Lecter, how clever this man was, and the possibilities spun in his mind, whirring like pistons. 

“No,” he replied. “I was the means to an end last time and that’s what I’ll be this time.” Will didn’t seem bothered by it at all. He was immensely aware of himself and most everyone’s intentions around him. He would be alright if everyone believed that the reason he had a breakdown was because he was too sensitive, that seeing such atrocities broke him down. 

“A means to an end,” echoed the doctor. “A means to an end to what? This case, or something more?”

The corners of his eyes crinkled as only the most vague of smiles twitched in his cheeks and he tilted his head like a dog who heard a funny sound. Like what Will said amused or even, perhaps, excited him.

Will rubbed his face and sighed. “To whatever it is Jack Crawford wants. A boost in his career, I suppose. But it’s important to me that this case gets solved. As much of a tool to him I might be, in the end he’ll be the one taking the fall if something goes wrong. We… have a mutual interest in solving cases and preventing what happened last time from happening again.” 

Hannibal nodded, as though his interest ended there. Naturally, it didn’t. “Do you like your job, Mr. Graham? Or shall I say jobs.” After all, Will was both a teacher and a specialist for the FBI, though, of course only one of those two occupations carried the more serious weight. It was almost vital to know exactly what this strange little man thought about his job as a profiler, how he justified his use and his mental deterioration… and his empathy with murderers. Surely such a taboo thing made him the topic of suspicion. Hell, within the psychiatric community, it had been for some time that people suspected psychopathy.

“Yes. I couldn’t imagine myself doing anything else,” he told the doctor. “Teaching… it was my second choice. I wanted to be on the field, but I didn’t pass the mental screening. I became a profiler after that, and I fucked that up too.” Whether or not it was what was good for him was an entirely different question. Working with murderers was what he felt he was meant to do from the second he read about his first binge eater ghoul. 

“And do you think it was fair that you didn’t pass the mental screening? Do you believe you could have performed?” The doctor’s head tilted, the other way this time, and he tapped his knee patiently before he gently crossed one leg over the other. Still an outwardly comfortable position, welcoming of conversation, but more gently prideful. Though, Hannibal always radiated confidence and majesty, so there was little change in demeanor to be seen.

Will rubbed his jaw, though he already knew the answer. It took him years to come to terms with it — and he still wasn’t sure he had completely — but he was mentally unfit for both being on the field and being a profiler. He thought that, possibly, in this instance he could have his cake and eat it. The cake would go moldy and he’d choke on what was left, that much was clear to himself and the psychiatrist sitting across from him. 

“No.” There was a lot more to his answer, but everything else was said in his glances and the roll of his shoulders.

The glances that told Hannibal that Will was most certainly still uncomfortable with the verdict, and that he thought about this all too often. It was a sore spot, like a timeless bruise. The roll of his shoulders shook away the troubled emotions, adjusted himself back to reality. He hated his answer, undoubtedly. Will truly did want to do the work he claimed to desire, but had come to accept his instability. 

But that was what therapy was for, right? To help Mr. Graham find stability. Lecter bet himself that he could, and he was already forming ideas about what might best suit Graham. 

“That’s sure a lot to tell me for a man who doesn’t want anybody in his head. Are you usually this open with other people on these things?”

“Nothing I told you isn’t anything not out there. Everyone knows I’m not fit for the job… everyone knows I’m a pawn.” Will looked down at his hands in his lap, grinning humorlessly as he spoke. He picked up his head and looked up to the doctor again, finding that he was watching him intently. Observing every movement, every expression, gaze splitting his skull open like a knife. 

“It isn’t nearly my deepest, darkest secret.” 

It might have been a little soon for Hannibal to have naturally become uncomfortable with the way he sat, but he shifted in his seat nonetheless, picking his back up off the leather. His tongue flashed between his lips. “Well, we have no reason to be sharing deep, dark secrets yet, do we? Even if you were speaking to me as a therapist and not an… excessively invasive colleague, it is much too soon to get to the meat of things, don’t you think.” 

The intensity of the doctor’s gaze had changed. He didn’t look like the other doctors, and never did. Never evaluated Will like a case study, despite his privilege of getting to speak to this interesting case. No, now Lecter looked like a lioness holding steady the deadly gaze that silently bored into the weakest antelope she could isolate. Hannibal Lecter was a cat teased.

Will noticed the movement. It was a movement that might have meant anything. Understanding subtle social cues was not his specialty, but it was hard to deny that something he had said provoked such a response. 

“An excessively invasive colleague,” he echoed. “I was under the impression I was speaking to you as a therapist. And what significance does that difference hold?” he asked, turning his head just slightly. 

“As a patient, you would seek help. If you do not seek help, I cannot help you, and therefore you are not my patient. Are you my patient, Mr. Graham, or are we colleagues?” What weight did Will want to hold against their conversations? Will could not and would not be forced to be a patient. It was (borderline) impossible to force psychiatric therapy on a person that didn’t want it. It must be established what Hannibal would be working with. 

“I have not often… benefited from supposed help.” He leaned back as he recalled his childhood — if you could even call it that — and pushed it away again. Those memories were gone for a reason, but it occasionally came flooding back. Now was such a time, and he swallowed his saliva slowly, setting a hand on the arm of the chair and letting the cold leather remind him what was the present.

“I don’t see how it would help me. All this is meant for is to keep me from getting fired again, and I somehow doubt anything is going to prevent that.”

“I can see why you might think that,” conceded the doctor, “And I respect it. While you must attend our sessions, therapy is not necessarily in order. Just know that… if at any time, that you decide that you want or need my counsel, or if you would like to understand yourself, that I can do that for you.” Politely, Hannibal leaned back and smiled. “This is your time, Will, and it will be whatever you would like it to be.”

“If that’s how it is, then… I don’t want to become a case study.” Will gripped the arm of the chair. “I refuse to become another goddamn case study.” He was always an instrument, a tool for others. For doctors, psychologists, and even others in his own field. If he truly came here just to have conversations, then maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Still, he didn’t trust the doctor, that being something that would have to be earned. There was something about his gaze that was off. If there was anyone that could see through flesh, it was Will Graham. He just stared back, the heaviness of the air hanging around his neck like a noose. What was the doctor thinking about?

Pleased as pie, and satisfied as the cat who ate the canary, Hannibal already had an answer ready. “Even if you are not officially my patient, you will have full confidentiality. Even if I were to publish anything that wasn’t posthumous, you would not be identified or identifiable. Not a soul besides those in the FBI knows I am even assigned to be your therapist.” There was no way that Hannibal would go and lose Will over something stupid and petty, not when he was this vastly interesting. To think that fools in the past had been so reckless with this brilliant cut of clay as to let it go to waste… it was difficult to find pity for them.

They lost their chance. Hannibal Lecter had found his own. He was going to seize it, no matter the consequences.

“...Alright.” Will rubbed his neck. There were traces of dog hair on his collar, as if he had missed it while using a lint roller. “I still don’t like the idea of someone inside of my mind,” he admitted. It was uncomfortable, especially since he had never opened up to anyone fully. There was simply never anyone that would accept him for who he was truly, behind all that quiet shyness. 

Looking pensive and nodding slowly, Hannibal replied, “I don’t blame you at all. The act of simply allowing another person in is highly intimate, especially when it has led to past downfalls. You let the wrong person in… who knows what kind of mess they could make, in your head and outside of it.” His empathy was somewhat appeasing, not pushing for his own gain, or offering his own anecdotes about the wonders of therapy. The longer the two spoke, the more obvious it became that Doctor Lecter wasn’t just another psychiatrist claiming to be a different breed. That, or he was one convincing liar.

“You would know better than anyone,” he replied. “How to get inside someone’s head and make a mess of it for your gain.” Will watched Hannibal, looking somewhat smug as he leaned back. He looked simultaneously relaxed and tense, intimate situations such as one-on-one conversations being rather difficult for him. He gripped the arm of the chair tightly, but still had a weak smile, as if looking friendly was a learned behavior rather than natural. 

The comment elicited an amused hum from the psychiatrist. “Most certainly. Any psychiatrist worth his salt could make a wreck of a man as much as he could build him up. After all, it is what we do best to unveil to a person their own workings and helping them to make sense of that. Psychiatry is a tool of both destruction and construction as much as a hammer is,” he agreed, nudging Will in a less cynical direction with the small quirk of a smile at the edges of his lip.

“It wouldn’t be as beneficial to heal me,” he continued, more so to amuse himself. “But to see me unfold? Well, wouldn’t that be fascinating?” Will leaned on a hand, justifying his reluctance to allow anyone inside of his head. Even God wanted to watch him unfold, that he knew. 

“I’m sure it would be as fascinating as watching anybody unfold from the inside out.” Hannibal shrugged. “But why would I want to render you unable to perform, or worsen your condition? You do an important job, and I, for one, would like to see you do what you do best. After all, you said you liked it.” So suspicious… Why was Will so suspicious of the doctor? Was it his distinguished manner, or his distinctness from other professionals that had already accosted him through to the bone and still managed to both not get through to Will and damage him simultaneously. 

“I suppose I do like it, but my mind is telling me that I shouldn’t. Or is it what people call a gut feeling? This is vile, it’s wrong, you’re going to become the monster everyone says you’ll become, that sort of thing.” He sighed as he spoke, seeming to retreat into thought after he was done speaking. He did his best to use his empathy for good, but there was a fine line somewhere, in some place he couldn’t see. He was wandering around in the dark, arms extended, and all he could do was trust this stranger to guide him away from it and not closer. 

A twitch of the brow indicated the doctor’s interest. He tapped his chin with his thumbnail, and frowned thoughtfully. “People insist that you will become a monster because you empathize with the criminal, is that it? Your record states that you have no history of violent tendencies—in fact you seem to be quite a mild-mannered fellow.” The statements demanded elaboration. How many people really told Will he was going to become a murderer? 

Did the gut feeling exist before the people telling him he was dangerous, or did the gut feeling arise from these claims? Hannibal had his own guess. 

“They think I’m a ghoul sympathizer. Some think they’re just as bad as ghouls.” It was a common accusation, as ghouls were universally hated in a way not dissimilar to sexual predators, and any sympathy for them was regarded as deplorable and enabling of their actions. “Not only that, but press coverage of me historically hasn’t been… favorable. It’s much more interesting to see me as a professional ghoul sympathizer than just a profiler.” 

“I’ve heard it mentioned… I didn’t know that many people believed it, especially considering you get ghouls caught and put to justice regularly. If you truly were an active sympathizer, I don’t believe you would play nice with the system of execution that exists for them.” Will could empathize with ghouls, obviously, but it was the mark of a lesser mind to reduce such a phenomenon to simple ghoul sympathy. Ghouls were a far more complex issue than most societies had ever considered before, beyond being global public enemy number one, and now was the time for people like himself to spearhead the understanding of ghouls. 

While the stretch could be made that maybe, Will was just some mad man using government work to counter ghoul justice, the sheer results Will was able to produce spoke well for themselves; there was nothing to hide about his work, and outwardly, it was cut-and-dry. 

If Will was a sympathizer, he was dissonant from his actions. It was morally wrong to save or protect serial killers, which all ghouls were by nature. 

“Far more people believe it than I’d like. They never learned the difference between empathy and sympathy, I guess.” Will put his hands in his lap, face screwing up. He then reached up and rubbed his face, clearly quite tired and likely somewhat sleep deprived. The anxiety of returning to the field was already taking its toll on him, and sleep only became more difficult once he was on a case. He had never met Angela Trowbridge, but she weighed on his mind. He knew she would appear in his dreams and keep him from sleep until she saw justice. 

The raccoon-eyes that Will donned didn’t go unnoticed, but Hannibal didn’t bring it up just yet. The more important wonder; what did Mr. Graham think of his own empathy? What did he think of the way other people understood his empathy? And about the way Hannibal understood his empathy? “Empathy is a complicated thing,” he said in their defense. “There is more than one form of empathy. I believe you use exceptional cognitive empathy to profile criminals, as opposed to emotional empathy, which is more commonly understood among the neurotypical population, and associated with sympathy. They just don’t understand, unfortunately.”

“You’re right. It doesn’t bother me, but it does bother Crawford. He told the team about me before I went to the crime scene… probably that they shouldn’t mind me if I start acting like a freak,” he shook his head and laughed. Will compared himself to the canaries miners took into the mines to test for carbon dioxide; a little caged bird whose purpose was to die to save everyone else’s lives. A sacrifice that the weak little creature could not resist. 

“And that does not bother you either?” It almost seemed as though Will exaggerated how little Jack’s behavior and his own belittling position bothered him. Perhaps the issues themselves did not irk Will so much as something else those topics reminded him of. But what bothered Will? What had him so agitated? 

It was clear that Mr. Graham was bothered. His words were perpetually dry, sharp, and armed, though he did not openly fight anything. In fact, he seemed to be doing whatever Mr. Crawford asked of him without question. He must like something about his job enough to tolerate abuse and ridicule. 

There was also the possibility that Will did not immediately recognize when he was being abused or ridiculed, instead accepting such things because they were so regular for him. 

“It does, a bit. But what am I supposed to do? It’s… a fair warning. It’s better that they know, I guess.” He shrugged, head tilting agreeably. He was aware that his behaviors could be very off-putting, especially when in those kinds of situations. “ _Should_ it bother me?”

“It is healthy to feel insulted when one is disrespected. It is indicative of a distorted worldview or low self esteem to be unreactive to such circumstances. However, I suppose that in this situation, you feel as though a warning is warranted. Mr. Graham, do you seek respect from others?”

Hannibal tried to be transparent with his thoughts, his hands knitting in his lap as he explained what he thought to Will. There were a lot of layers to this man… much to peel back and lay bare before drawing any conclusions. However, getting through to Mr. Graham was closer to breaking through tough walnut shell than shucking corn.

“I wouldn’t call it low self esteem. I’d call it… indifference. Not participating in the game at all. Is there a word for that?” Will raised his brows, head tilting slightly. He didn’t think himself a pushover, standing up for himself when possible, though his indifference toward subtle forms of disrespect could be easily mistaken for cowardice. 

"Defeat," suggested Hannibal, his lightly colored, but strongly ridged brow raised. He looked sincere at first, and then flashed a momentary amused smile that could have been mistaken for a sympathetic one. Dark eyes flashed to the clock at the wall behind Will, and then back to his patient. "Our hour is nearly up."

Will stared at the doctor for a moment in silence, then slowly stood, crossing his arms. “Defeat,” he echoed, then shook his head with a humored smile. 

“Fine, because I’ll need a week to think on that.” 

“Please return to me with your findings. I would so like to know if you think this world has beaten you, Will.”

Doctor Lecter stood and pet the wrinkles out of his clothes. “I’m sure you have important things to get to. Please have a nice night, Mr. Graham, and drive safely,” he advised as he led his unwilling client to the door, opening it for him and offering an escape. 

His chest puffed, and his smile soft and yielding, Hannibal expected Will to go eagerly. 

Will glanced to the psychologist, then stepped past him through the door. 

“You have a nice night too, Dr. Lecter,” he bade as he left, his voice just as wispy as when they were sitting across from one another. 

~~~

Despite his independent nature, Hannibal did, in fact, have a therapist. One that he quite liked, as well. Enough to follow her relentlessly, a little frighteningly, even. She wasn’t working, but still, she saw him, since… well, Hannibal insisted. 

Hannibal suspected that she feared him, and perhaps rightfully so. Most humans feared the unknown, especially when that unknown knew them intimately and thoroughly. It was a daunting task to dig oneself out of the precarious situation of knowing another, and being known. It was why Hannibal himself was, even now, still being investigated by his own therapist of over half a decade. She always thought she was making ground with him, but then again, he added a new layer to himself, answering in half-truths and hypothetical questions. 

They sat across from one another in Bedelia’s living room, both swirling a glass of chilled white wine and intermittently sipping it. Neither was willing to become intoxicated around the other, especially not in a semi-professional setting, but both were connoisseurs of the fine and enjoyed a new drink with one another often. “A lot of fresh and bright things are emerging in my life. Many new doors have opened for me.”

The psychologist sat with one hand in her lap and the other holding her glass, a leg crossed over the other. Bedelia, whether or not she wanted to be, was here again, sitting adjacent to Hannibal Lecter. They had to have sat just like this well over a hundred times, speaking of life and death and love and loss. There was never not something to talk about — Dr. Lecter always had something new… something new, never something old. Despite their meetings being in the hundreds, Hannibal never spoke about his past. When questioned, the topic of conversation would be carefully redirected, and while he would give the illusion of an answer, it never revealed anything more than what could be inferred: even Dr. Du Maurier did not quite catch on to this right away.

“Is that so?” She set her drink down, both of her hands in her lap now as she tilted her head slightly. “And what are these new doors? I assume that it has something to do with your recent work with the FBI.”

There was another thing. He spoke briefly of something — _someone_ — else. A new patient. Hannibal seldom spoke of his patients, not because he was true to his word in confidentiality, but for little other reason than it did not linger on his mind. The mention of a new patient meant that he was possibly interested in this person, which was rare. In fact, she could count on her fingers the times Hannibal spoke of a specific person during their meetings more than just in passing. 

“Indeed it does. I will be working closely with ghouls now, closer than ever. Paving the way to the future with new research into ghoul psychology and physiology, all funded by the FBI. Of course, this in exchange for taking on what they consider to be a tough case. I have a new patient, Mr. Graham.” Slate-faced, he sipped his wine. The name had never been discussed between them, but considering Will Graham’s general… controversiality, it wasn’t uncommon for a well-read psychologist to have heard the name mentioned. Dr. Du Maurier was among the best psychologists Hannibal knew, but that didn’t mean that she kept up with news of the FBI and its trivialities. 

Will might have been considered just that — a triviality. Significant enough for recognition, but insignificant enough that he was not a case study (not that he wouldn’t be if he allowed himself to be examined.) A significant insignificance, all due to his circumstances. The most beautiful, pure clay, or the smoothest pressed canvas ever to be stretched over a frame. Unassuming and humble, but notable to the artist.

Considering himself to be an artist of many mediums, Lecter was inspecting his canvas.

Bedelia knew. She always knew, and the look in Lecter’s eye was a dead giveaway. She had heard of Will Graham herself — the eccentric empath utilized in a manner not unlike a bloodhound. He was used like a dog, brought on the scene for his singular talent and the rest of him disregarded. The morals of it were consistently challenged, and Mr. Graham’s opinions on it were questioned, though he refused to ever comment on the matter. He did his job, and he did it well. She could admire that, and perhaps she could even relate to him a little. However, she only felt pity for the man now that Hannibal Lecter seemed to have taken an interest in him. 

Wherever Hannibal could be found, tragedy and suffering followed close behind. 

“I see. Have you spoken to Mr. Graham?” 

“Twice now. We had breakfast, and our first session after that.”

What did Bedelia suspect? What did she think he was doing? How wrong was she? The corners of his eyes twitched with intrigue, and dark shark eyes darted over her neutral brow, her motionless hand, her pursed lips. A pretty woman, aged as she was. In fact, her age added to her appeal.

She looked wise, calm, and mature. Always cool, excellent with words. She matched up with her looks, truly. Hannibal matched up with his own as well, he knew. He made absolutely sure of that.

“Breakfast. That is quite casual for a patient,” she commented. “Especially such an important one.” Calm, always calm, even if she was vaguely unsettled. Bedelia was always anxious in his presence, though did an exceedingly impressive job at masking it. Peace did not mean to be in a place where there was no tragedy, trouble, or hard work — it meant to be in the midst of those things and to remain calm anyway. That is how she coped with what had happened to her, and why it had happened. 

He hummed his agreement, and took a small sip of the cool, crisp drink at his fingertips, taking a deep inhale after swallowing just for that extra dimension of appreciation. “Yes, it was meant to be. His boss, the man who hired me, specifically requested that I go to meet him before our sessions began. He knows how Mr. Graham does with therapy. Or rather, that he does not do therapy. I don’t consider him to be my patient until he requests that therapy begins, which he has not,” Hannibal established. No, there was no mistaking that… there was no doctor-patient relationship if the patient refused the doctor. Thus, the two of them were simply colleagues. Invasive colleagues.

“Oh,” she replied. “A special relationship, then. It’s a bit odd, considering you have no qualms with forced psychiatry.” A little smile crossed Bedelia’s lips, extending to her eyes, but quickly faded. Her focused eyes lacked the glint a truly amused person would have. 

It was without a doubt that Bedelia knew more about Hannibal than anyone else, and yet she knew next to nothing about him. She knew he spun lies, not like a sewist but like an orbweaver spider. It was instinctual and natural, not learned. The web was intricately spun, threads creating mesmerizing designs that were beyond any human comprehension; some theorize that orbweavers went so far as to take into account ultraviolet rays to attract insects — then, in the morning, the web was torn down until the sun set again. Hannibal Lecter tore down his web only to spin another, and not even Bedelia could ever hope to keep track. 

The spider’s lips quirked. “You’d be right, in many cases in which I deem such actions to be necessary. So far, I think it would be harmful to my therapeutic efforts to attempt to deceive Will that way. He is smart, and privy to psychiatry on some level.” White sunlight gilded the image of the room as seen through the pale Moschofilero, skewing the world beyond the glass and refracting the light on the pristine floor wonderfully. Bedelia always did have an impeccably clean home. They had that in common. Perhaps their commonalities were what allowed them to tolerate one another so well.

They took good care of the webs they spun, picking them clean of debris exhaustively.

“I think I will be well-suited for him, when he decides he wants my help. An orthodox practitioner would not only turn him off, but would not be prepared for him,” he determined before lifting that golden drink to his lips once more.

Bedelia turned her head slowly to look out the window, her light hair lit by the afternoon sun. The curtains kept the room dim as she liked, but the natural light pouring in still highlighted her when she turned. 

“As well-suited for him as I am for you,” she commented, almost questioningly. “And what methods, if not therapy, will you be using on Will Graham?” 

The same golden light dripped off Bedelia’s head that nestled in the shape of his glass. What was the flavor of that aureate glow? “I think I need to wait a while and feel him out before deciding completely. I know woefully little about him. However, I am preparing him to accept a more open conversational therapy. Earning his trust,” Hannibal clarified. 

In other words, he was grooming Will to accept his therapy. He was dampening the clay he wished to work with and dropping it to the turntable before he dug in his thumbs to begin the true sculpting. Gaining Will’s trust might be a little more difficult than just setting him at the turntable, however. His trust would need to be earned and Hannibal’s reliability proven, and it very well may need to be on the job. 

It would be arranged. 

“And doing what with that trust? Do you truly believe he would accept your therapy, or are you earning his trust for an entirely different reason?” Whether or not what Dr. Lecter did could even be considered therapy was debatable. There was nothing between their words but the soft whirr of a humidifier, graciously filling the long silences as they threaded their webs. The longer it took, the more intricate the result. Patience was a vital aspect of a spider’s success; they could not chase, for there was no need. A cricket would always jump a centimeter too high, or a fly would flutter too low. 

A subtle twitch of the eyelids almost equated a laugh from Hannibal, though he often seemed incapable of a real chuckle. “You doubt my intentions. As unique as Will Graham truly is, he is little different from most of my other cases. My ultimate goal is therapy for Mr. Graham,” asserted the younger gentleman, and in doing so denied any prior culpability. He always did, but never in a direct or defensive way. No, Hannibal simply never did a thing wrong. According to his own conscience, and the law, he was saintly. 

She stared at him a moment, then nodded. “Is that all that’s been weighing on your mind this past week? Is there anything else?” Hannibal had a tendency to have his mind mainly occupied by one thing at a time. It would be anything from writing a certain song, an event, or an aspiration. It was what he mainly talked about at his sessions, the first thing to be brought up, and she found it interesting that this time it was Will Graham. 

“Most of my thoughts have concerned him. I find him to be very… interesting,” put Hannibal simply.

Interesting was a way to put it. It didn’t feel as though any other word was specific enough. He wasn’t noteworthy, he was more than that. And yet, not enthralling. Will had _potential_ not yet to be realized. He was as interesting as uncast iron, a ball of clay, a disassembled puzzle. As interesting as a block of marble. 

“There is a tale about Michelangelo,” Hannibal changed the subject, seemingly suddenly. “He stared for months at a massive block of marble. This marble had been rejected time and again by other sculptors of the era, taken from place to place only to be thrown out again. It ended up in his hands, and he inspected it, learned the marble, and saw the Statue of David inside, a cultural symbol burned forever into legend. David was always inside, according to Michelangelo. He was only there to cut David free.”

A true smile now graced the lips that made themselves intimately known to the Vine Du Pays that shed its golden light on his chin.

The woman observed Hannibal with great interest. What was he up to now? “There is the belief that art is a manifestation rather than an imitation. Does art truly imitate life, or do we strive to be as beautiful as David, or as brave as Achilles?” She tilted her head slightly. 

“Are you Michelangelo or are you the marble?” she asked. Silly question, she thought — he did not see himself as anything but in full control. He was always Michelangelo, but whether or not he would confirm such a thing made her wonder. 

It was enough to bring a chuckle out of Hannibal. It was obvious to him that she had her own theories. As a mind after his own, she couldn’t help but make theories, try again and again in her futility to just figure out a little more of Hannibal Lecter. 

She never did. 

It was what Hannibal so loved about Ms. Du Maurier.

“I am David,” replied Hannibal, simply beaming.


	4. The Swan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Swans share a love with their mates that humans could only ever hope to have. They pair for life, and their love never wavers, never dulls, never dies. When separated from their mate, swans have been known to die of a broken heart.

It was but six days after the first murder. Less than a goddamn week. This killer was getting overconfident, since this behavior was completely off the wall from their norm so far. It was obviously the same person in Jack’s opinion, but goddamn, was it irritating to not have any idea when they’d strike next.

Things were getting dire. Jack was glad Will came with when he was asked… maybe he should let him know how grateful he was. No, now wasn’t the time, the case was far from closed. 

Jack’s car crunched up the gravel driveway about half an hour after he gave Will the wakeup call. He’d rang Will the second he got the news. He guessed it was a blessing for Jack that Will was a rough sleeper… sucked for Will himself, of course, but he woke up pretty damn easy to phone calls. Lingering outside, he put the car in neutral, though didn’t expect his diligent bloodhound to wait too long.

Dogs of all shapes and sizes milled inside, their noses and ears poking up as vague blobs through the front windows and as shapes in the doorway. Jack was surprised the first time he saw Will’s pack… for a man labeled as a psychopath and suspected ghoul sympathizer, Will was awful compassionate to dogs and the unfortunate alike.

It was almost funny. His personal scenthound loved dogs. 

The messy curls and uneven collar of his coat as he emerged told Jack that Will got ready in a hurry, the man fending off his dogs from the front door before leaving. He got in beside his boss and strapped himself in, looking vaguely annoyed. He forgot that working in the field meant working ungodly hours during any morning or night, which wasn’t too agreeable with his sleep schedule that he had ironed out. Now that it was interrupted, it would undoubtedly take a long time to sort it out again. He was fickle like that. 

“Good morning, Jack,” he greeted as he settled into the seat. He watched as his dogs stared woefully from the window as the car backed out from the driveway. It really wasn’t good to be leaving them alone all the time, maybe a dog sitter or just someone to visit them once in a while would be in order. 

“Good morning,” politely welcomed Agent Crawford as he shifted into reverse, twisting in his seat and setting a palm behind the passenger’s side seat to twist himself enough to see down the driveway and back out of it. The hand moved back down to push the car into drive and he leaned back with a sigh. “You sleep well, aside from the… wakeup call?” 

Jack felt fortunate that he was on small talk terms with Will, since he tended to be extremely cold and unwelcoming to anybody else who even tried. He gave his frustrated smiles, his dry laughs, and his rolled eyes out like candy on Halloween, and it was sometimes hostile enough to make a man secondhand embarrassed. Will Graham was not a man afraid to speak his mind, that was for sure.

“Slept fine,” he replied dryly, either not adept or not interested in small talk or both. He thought it was boring and trivial, and on top of that he didn’t know what to say half the time. He wanted to at least keep a decent relationship with his boss, however, so saved his qualms with the practice for now. Will hadn’t talked to Jack since before his session, and it seemed that he wasn’t upset at him yet. It might have even gone well. 

He still wasn’t sure what to think of his psychiatrist. Will thought he was odd, but there was no real reason to dislike him thus far. And yet he had no real reason to like him either, and so for now he would classify himself as neutral. Or maybe neutral-leaning-toward-dislike, because he fucking hated snobs. A snobby, rich psychiatrist was the last person he’d start liking. 

“You’re holding up alright from the last case? Nothing too… you know,” Jack glanced across the car and tipped his head. _Nothing too unstable,_ he might have meant. “You can always tell Hannibal if you’re not feeling at the top of your game,” he reminded quickly, his eyes returning to the road so as not to put pressure on Will. Funny guy didn’t like eye contact, so Jack didn’t exert his pressure when he didn’t expressly need to, as he might in the office or when he was being defied. 

Fingers tapped on the wheel, reflecting a bit of discomfort at the topic. Jack was no shrink, that was for sure. That’s why he’d hired only the best.

Will gazed out the window as he was spoken to, leaning back comfortably in the seat. 

“Nothing too fucked up, no. I haven’t… made any progress on it either. What’s this one about?” he finally asked. He was secretly dying to know, but tried not to press it. Had to seem less invested than he actually was, or else he might be perceived as obsessed or worse. Of course, the reason Will was so successful was because of his obsession with each case — that was how he solved it. He allowed himself to become obsessed with the murderer, to become them on their crime scenes. That was how it worked, though it was better if most people didn’t know just how much brain power and time went into imagining himself killing people. 

Thoughtfully, Jack paused, his lips parting, but no sound coming out. Then, he continued, as though breaking his veil of stupor. “Uh, yeah. Of course. Victim is a daycare worker, age forty six, white female, no kids or husband… just a dog. Found dead behind her workplace, both hands severed straight through the forearm before death. Rinkaku residue was found on the wounds. Killed with a cut across the throat, just like last time. Matches the victim profile and the modus operandi. This ghoul is getting bold,” Jack listed off like he had a hundred times before. 

His fingers no longer tapped, but gripped the wheel severely. Whatever distracted him was wiped away by the gore behind his eyelids. 

“Mm,” Will hummed in response. When he read the other two files, they were very similar. Almost _too_ similar, but in the wrong way. The first killing was a school counselor, and the second was a local babysitter, the third being Angela Trowbridge. The first assumption was that the ghoul had trauma with female caretakers — which was not uncommon in both ghouls and human killers, who often vented their trauma through their victims. This, however, was odd. A daycare worker… it seemed almost as if it was an attempt to copy the trend. 

“It isn’t the same killer,” he concluded after a long silence. 

“You haven’t seen the crime scene yet,” Jack was quick to point out, offering only a frustrated glance in Will’s direction when he made such a bold, sudden conclusion. It was to be expected of Will, though… if he found a scent, he always bayed like a good dog. Pretty much forced to swallow his pride over the course of a couple of quiet seconds, Jack finally asked an important question. “What makes you say that anyway?”

Will did not seem bothered by Jack’s doubt. He just leaned against the window, arm propping him up. 

“It’s someone associated with that high school. Even if the killing was done in the same manner, it doesn’t make sense. A daycare worker _seems_ like it fits the trend, but it doesn’t. A high schooler has no reason to go after a daycare worker.” Will wasn’t conclusive that it was a high schooler, but it was most likely. Of course, they pulled out each and every one of the kids in Mrs. Trowbridge’s classes and all of their parents, and there was no real suspect. All of her co-workers were extensively interviewed — nothing. Still, ghouls were known to be master impersonators. He didn’t doubt that Angela Trowbridge was teaching the student that killed her that very day. 

Something about that reasoning irked Jack more than the rest of it did. “I see what you’re saying. But you think it’s a high school student committing these murders? What reason would a student have to kill their teachers, wouldn’t it be more likely that it would be some person otherwise associated with a student?” He shook his head in disbelief. “I just don’t see why some kid — ghoul or not — would just out themselves with a cluster of publicized murders.”

“It’s trying to get someone’s attention. That, or it’s a strategy. They kill a string of people one way publicly, and when they want to be discreet, they’ll kill them normally. For one, it’s clear this ghoul is associated with some of the major ghoul powers around. There are countless underground ghoul gangs and organizations, and the more powerful they are, the more bold and frequent they are with their killings. This ghoul is attempting to get the attention of the public and subsequently the desired gang or figure within the gang. There is the chance that the killer isn’t a student but the parent of one instead… Either way, a daycare worker doesn’t make sense. It’s an attempt to hide a murder with the original killer’s style. A copycat.” 

Will seemed to be very confident in his speculation. In his mind, it was obvious. There were a few pieces of the puzzle missing, but by now he had pieced together all four corners, closing in on the middle quickly. 

“I… guess it isn’t that outlandish,” Jack admitted. “Still. Even if that is true, it makes it all the more important you’re at the top of your game, Will.” With a shake of his head, he took a turn, spinning the wheel to the left with his big, rough hands, a contrast to Will’s small, almost delicate ones. As much as the man worked with his hands, Will still looked small most times, from his hands to his figure. 

It was funny. He knew Will was strong enough to get by and then some, and it wasn’t as though he sat around in self atrophy all day, so it must have been up to his avoidant demeanor to make him seem so… meek and harmless. Even though his personality sometimes was anything but.

Once, Will was so adamant, so _sure_ that this one guy, an elderly veteran with Alzheimer’s living placid in a memory care home, was a ghoul, when it was damn near impossible in any sense that he was, that he threatened Jack to contact somebody up the ladder from him to get this man properly investigated. It felt like a move Jack himself might’ve pulled, despite the asocial nature of that little recluse. Jack thought it was a waste of resources. That guy was poked with needles every day because his disease had progressed to the point of dysphagia, and ghouls’ skin healed so fast due to their high count of RC cells that needles usually weren’t able to pierce it. His health was in shambles, any doctor would have seen something as obvious as a high RC count anyway. 

It turned out Will was right, in the end. Jack, not wanting to lose Will, conducted a search, and lo and behold, the old ghoul had been eating just enough to keep himself barely alive. With only the small amount of human flesh consumed at a time, his RC levels were low enough to test within the human range, since a ghoul’s diet kept aloft its high number of RC cells. 

Will always said that he didn’t fill the holes in the evidence with his story, the evidence filled the holes in his story. He learned that day to trust Will… he had ever since. He liked to think that Will came to recognize his trust, and trusted Jack in return. 

“I’m trying my best, as always,” Will replied. A copycat wasn’t uncommon, though typically the rest of the team could readily tell a copycat murder apart from an original. It was a little different, but nothing that Will couldn’t handle. He was confident that the crime scene would only confirm his theory. Of course, he was still slightly puzzled, more so than most of the other cases he had worked on. The nature of these crimes were rooted in something deeper than he could hope to understand through just the humiliated bodies of the deceased. Despite that, Will knew that it would not slip through his fingers. As someone who could understand the evildoer, he knew there was no horrible, hidden mystery to killing. The very act of taking undeserved authority over another’s life was inherently evil; each and every human culture acknowledges this in some way. Will had killed time and time again, perhaps more than anyone on this earth. The sights of bodies strangled him in a vulgar, intoxicating way, and through this obsession was the way he so unconditionally could understand another person or ghoul. 

All too often, repulsion and alienation left the victims of crimes unavenged. Many lacked the stomach to easily put themselves in a murderer’s shoes, to remember that ghouls have thoughts and motives and _yes_ , feelings too, they lacked the perseverance and perhaps the dementedness to plunge both hands into the foul reality of some dreadful crime, rummage through the mind and bones and grasp the pure gleaming nugget of truth at the center of it all. 

A sigh was Jack’s acknowledgement, as it sometimes was when he could do nothing about something, which, given, wasn’t actually often.

“I know you are, but trying your best and being at your best are very different things, Will. How are things with Dr. Lecter? Do you like…” he bit his lip, and then corrected himself. Of course Will didn’t like Lecter. “Is he alright for you?”

Hopefully _that_ stupid question was worded well enough to be intelligible. Thankfully, it seemed to be.

“If you’re asking if I got up and walked out on him like the last one, then no.” He smiled dryly at nothing. “He agreed that I would be attending his sessions, but we wouldn’t have to engage in therapy. A mysterious guy. The kind you want to learn more about.” He sighed and turned his head to look out the windshield, knuckles still up against the window. 

“But not the kind you should.”

Jack pretty much ignored the last part. Will said that kind of weird shit all the time, so who could blame him? “Did you just tell me that I hired a therapist for you, and you’re seeing him, but you aren’t doing actual therapy with him? Will, I’m glad you’re not completely at odds with Dr. Lecter, but you’re missing the whole point…” 

He sighed, and then quickly changed his pace after he sighed. “Actually, no, no. Forget I said any of that. Just. Don’t stop seeing him. If you can tolerate him, that’s good enough for me,” he amended before Will could even continue to talk. 

Will huffed and shook his head. “I suppose that’s something you’ll have to talk to Dr. Lecter about,” he quickly dismissed. “He’s a psychiatrist anyway, not a therapist. Therapy is optional. Again, I don’t see how therapy meant for neurotypical people would help me anyway.” They both knew that Will wouldn’t magically stay stable during this round because of therapy. It was just a way for the FBI to show that they at least made an effort to keep him sane.

“But the whole point is that he’s not… orthodox.” That was his thing. Jack hoped he would be able to make a therapy more suited for Will, since he’s an outstanding psychiatrist in the fields of pathology and ghouls. Just seemed like a great fit. “But again. I’m not in a place to complain,” he sighed and tried to just… take it as it was. 

“As long as he’s tolerable.” It was a weekly psychiatric evaluation, at least. That was enough of a line of defense against any breakdowns, and, worst case scenario, somebody who could vouch for Will in court if anything went _seriously_ wrong. It was more fall nets than Jack and Will had before, and everybody at least lived last time. 

“He’s tolerable, yes,” Will agreed, deciding that maybe they should just find common ground lest he make the rest of this car ride miserable. “Is the crime scene near the last? Same or different neighborhood?” he asked as they finally started emerging from the remoteness of his home and into a city, the same one Mrs. Trowbridge was found in. 

“A different neighborhood, but only about ten miles from the last kill. All of them have stayed within a thirty mile radius so far,” Jack attempted to recover from his sheepishness, his head right back into the case where it should have been. “It further supports the notion that it’s got ties to a local, powerful gang. They have to hunt on their own territory, so my bet is that they’ll stay within that area.” 

“Once we get there, I’d like to read over the data of the local gangs. I know of a few, but it might give a clue,” said Will. He wasn’t sure if this copycat was part of the same gang quite yet — it was likely, as hunting on another gang’s grounds sparsely resulted in anything other than death. 

Ghoul gangs worked a little like wolf packs, and a little like human gangs, or even governments at times, it seemed. There were hierarchies, usually based on age and the strength of the ghouls. There were borders and law. Borders were defended strictly, and laws mostly had to do with times and places to kill, since that was all ghouls tended to care about. Everything a ghoul did was in the name of killing the next victim. Even wolves had more culture and lives outside the hunt. Wolves didn’t seek the trust of the elk before they stabbed him in the back. 

Within these hierarchies, many ghouls were well-assimilated into human society. When engaging in ghoul gang activities, ghouls had to somehow mask their identity to preserve their human life. They concealed their identifying features in a number of ways — the first and easiest way was a simple face mask, which ranged from a nose and mouth covering to complex, decorated headpieces. These special masks were a part of ghoul culture, which varied greatly between even just gangs, but a well-made and beautiful mask signified a high social standing within the ghoul hierarchy. The majority of ghouls had simple, homemade masks, while the leaders of gangs and powerful ghouls had custom made masks. These masks often became the identities of the ghouls both within the ghoul world and to investigators — the last ghoul he had caught was simply known as _Cleopatra_ , as she donned an Egyptian-style mask (which even included hair). Cleopatra turned out to be a co-leader of a gang that had seemed to have gone inactive since her capture. 

The other way was far more complex and not fully understood. A ghoul’s predatory organ, known as a _kakuhou_ , was the sole difference between a ghoul and a human. The kakuhou produced RC cells, which was the cause of all differences between ghouls and humans — repulsion to human food, a desire for human meat, the manifestation of a _kagune_ , and a heightened sense of smell and enhanced strength. When the body ingests an excess amount of RC cells, the kakuhou will sometimes mutate, creating a secondary kagune known as a kakuja. 

The kagune was what claws were to lions, but for ghouls, and it emerged from the kakuhou. It varied vastly from ghoul to ghoul — but they could resemble tentacles, fire, and even swords and wings. However, some ghouls possessed the ability to mutate their kakuhou through excess ingestion of RC cells, creating a second pseudo-kagune. The ingestion of RC cells was mainly done by cannibalism on other ghouls, namely consuming their kakuhou. A kakuja was more versatile than a kagune, but had severe biological consequences. 

The kakuja was the second way to mask one’s ghoul identity. 

The kakuja could be used as a weapon or armor often much deadlier than a kagune. It could cover the whole body of a ghoul, or even morph their appearance entirely, typically by the kakuja forming around and engulfing the user. A kakuja ghoul can, indeed, use this whenever necessary, but the use of the kakuja caused an overproduction of RC cells which can cause major complications, including temporary and permanent dementia, confusion, loss of control, and death.

Will suspected that the original killer that still had not earned themselves a ghoul alias was some sort of powerful ghoul, as few ghouls had such a luxury to leave a whole body spare for a severed limb. 

-

What kept cooking fun was variety. Variety in vegetables, cultural influence, seasonal vegetables, methods of cooking, music, and, of course, protein.

Today was a day of some firsts. Namely, in method and protein, but even more specifically, the _part_ of the animal he was preparing this evening. There was no true name in Hannibal’s mind for such a cut, as it wasn’t harvested from animals without thumbs, but the brevis muscle was the term a surgeon may have used to describe it to his patient. The meat of the palm, to put it in layman’s terms.

A single portion looked rather like a very small chicken thigh, with the way the pink flesh clung to the end of a bone. It had to, quite tediously, be cleaned well of pesky connective tissue, but in the end, he had two quite adequate bites of meat. With his hearty side of fall vegetables, there shouldn’t be a problem in the world with not feeling satisfied. Satisfaction aside, he had to prepare for this meal with regards to his set of tools. With such a high use muscle like that of the hand, a longer time at the heat was required to turn it tender, but such a small, lean piece of meat would dry quickly… rather like chicken, he suspected.

A new method was in order, and so Hannibal at last was trying sous vide. It long eluded him, as he quite liked to handle his proteins very personally, never one to allow good meat to unintentionally go to waste. No, no, not the lovely portions he so carefully selected and even sometimes harvested himself. Plus, it was a method that allowed him to use a lower heat for a longer time, and in a sealed bag. No loss. 

Right now, his cuts of choice were marinating in their vacuum sealed bag, a tandoori-spiced garlic-yogurt marinade and a small bit of fat from the animal itself, just to give a more genuine flavor. That should mix with the butter once hot and offer a richer tone to the meat. Perfect.

What wasn’t new, though? His music certainly wasn’t anything fresh or experimental. It was among Camille Saint-Saëns’ most famous works, in fact. Even the untrained ear of the casual listener or even somebody who simply engaged with any media at all would likely recognize the elegant sound of the thirteenth movement in _The Carnival of the Animals_ , _Le cygne._ The Swan. A dynamic, interesting song that featured a languid, sleepy cello to represent the calm water, and two pianos like the two paddling feet of the swan. 

He’d like nothing more than to taste the swan, experience its life through yet another artistic lens, just like that captured by Camille.

The marinating protein was dropped into the hot water carefully, and Lecter could almost imagine that it was the swan, floating so charmingly through the ripples of the pond, making art in its very existence. After all, if the swan inspires so many simply by being, is it not artistic to begin with? Perhaps art should solely be considered what is done with the things that simply are.

Since these bits of high-use muscle would need to be tenderized by a solid four hours on the heat, Hannibal enjoyed some time to himself to dance with himself. He restarted the song on his phone, (which was mounted on the nearby wall for convenience), turned up the volume, and shut his eyes to allow the music to so gently and entirely consume him. 

Lifting to his toes, but not quite into a complete pointe, Lecter lifted his arms like wings, and imagined the sprawling feathers of a black swan, ruffling itself majestically while it raised its brilliantly billed chin high. He turned gracefully, turning an arm over his head to rest on his opposite, extended bicep as though weakened by the wind tumbling from death’s persuasive lips. The arm cast over his head drew back and came to pass over his throat to protect it from the sharp blade that loomed in shadow. The Swan must resist death, however eminent it always was, and in the end would be.  
  
In defiance, the swan shut her eyes and furrowed her brows, leaning forward to find escape in the amplification of the feathers on her tail and back, showing death just how she would try to live. She spun around to fight him, and Lecter grabbed his own wrist as she turned, gripping his wrist until his knuckles went white. In rejection, he shook his head, and she released his wrist to turn around and tilt back his head, strutting slowly forward to extend her wings to the world and cry out with her own vitality, clutching her chest and extending her long, graceful neck in a final attempt to fight. She lifted a leg, and Hannibal brought his knee nearly to his stomach.

And fell. As death finally tripped her up, in his all-powerful way. He knelt, and felt the weight on her chest, on her arms, as he pulled up her throat and cut into it. Not lethally. 

Her resting post would be facing the sky, staring teary-eyed up into the vast expanse of darkness, her chest adorned with the essence of her life, and her wings forever severed from her, separating her from her beauty of life and into the new art of demise, orchestrated by the reaper himself.

Satisfied, Hannibal stood and smiled to himself as the next movement played. He turned it back down to his preferred background volume to carry on preparing his meal. He washed dishes in between to pass the time, and hand-dried them with a microfiber cloth.

Next, a side of fall vegetables, all picked from a farmer’s market that morning just to assure freshness. Kabocha squash, zucchini, young corn, and purple carrots were on the menu tonight, and he wasted no time gutting and cutting the kabocha into appealing crescents, and cutting the zucchini, corn, and carrots lengthwise with the best looking presentation in mind.

The pot filled with water, and the steamer was unfolded and situated just over the waterline. 

In went the vegetables, and onto the heat they went.

As that came to a boil, he chopped kumquats thinly, enjoying the fresh, citrine scent they shed. Those got piled up in a pan and coated nicely with honey, then put on high heat. After they were all chopped, shallots and cherry peppers joined the kumquats in the pan, and they were stirred until coated and then taken off the heat quickly. He wanted the last two vegetables to be more substantial than the kumquats for a more potent experience… softer kumquats, firmer peppers and lively shallots. 

After all, what was Hannibal’s art without meticulous control?

When the vegetables were about finished, he plated them on a heated dish so they might be able to cook in their own heat for just a few more minutes.

His sauce, now finished, was ready to be ladled over the seasonal vegetables, so Hannibal very delicately spooned it over the plate, not allowing it to seep out of the rough crescent he had laboriously created with the steamed produce. The rich gold and red speckled over golden-brown, pale yellow, and purple made for a fall set of colors, which, admittedly, was not part of Hannibal’s plan, but coincidence and art seemed to be close companions.  
  
Finally, with a pair of tongs, Hannibal fetched the meat from the water, and set each one on their own warmed plate by the stove. Slicing the first bag open so he needn’t touch it with his fingers and burn them, he plucked the meat from the bag and dropped it on a pan coated in a smoking, fresh-pressed olive oil. He flash-seared the first, set it gently and precisely inside the vegetable crescent, and then did the same to the next, filling the air with the lovely Tandoori char he aimed for.

Immaculate. He sat alone to eat, which was a shame. He almost didn’t notice, however, between sips of wine and the feeling of his teeth scraping tender flesh right off the bone.  
  
Another performance deserving of uproarious applause.

-

Jack pulled up into the parking lot of a daycare, tape fencing around the place. Will spotted the distinct white coats of CCG agents. The CCG, or the Commission of Counter Ghoul was not unlike the FBI, but solely focused on exterminating ghouls, and rather than being part of the government, was a private organization. Will stepped out of the car, brows furrowed. He didn’t like them one bit, but they certainly were well-liked by the government, as agents of the commission seemed to be able to do whatever the hell they wanted. 

Brushing past some of the agents, Will stepped into the building and into the crime scene. 

There gathered some familiar faces… Naam stood beside Min, her hair pinned back as Min, dressed in the full body suit, mask, and gloves, stood beside her examining something on a clipboard that Will couldn’t see with great interest. Various similarly suited, masked, and clinically gloved figures shuffled about the crime scene, but it seemed like most evidence was recorded photographically.

Now all they needed was a profile.

There wasn’t much gore inside. No, it seemed that the woman had left the break room to take a break out back behind the facility, a fallen e-cigarette evidence that she had gone out for a smoke break, completely relaxed and unsuspecting. Considering it’s usually a violation of employee policy to vape or smoke on the clock or on the premises, she must have been confident that nobody could see her… meaning that there were no security cameras pointing this way. 

As Will rounded the corner of the dumpster out back, Jack hung back. He had already seen the photographs. 

The woman’s body hung by her head from the lip of the dumpster to which it was mounted with rope. Her eyes were glossy and clouded with death, and the blood that poured forth from her open throat was still shiny, but not wet any longer, having had hours to dry. Will stepped closer to the woman.

She hung like a butchered pig in the waste of her own blood. Her arms were severed, the body little more than a memento of the person it once contained. Christa Valdez stared past him, and Will silently wondered what she was looking at or for. Did she see the light as she met her end? He had to wonder what she was thinking in her last moments.

“What did you see?” he asked her softly, stepping just at the edge of the pool of blood that surrounded her. That terrible taste of copper assaulted him as the wind picked up, bringing to him the scent of her drying blood. He knew what she saw: it was not the same as what Angela saw in her last moments. She saw none other than someone cruel, someone who severed her arms while she could still feel it. And here Will was again, feeling pain for those who would not, should not, could not. 

There was a little glimmer, and he saw a single earring dangling from her earlobe. It was tainted by blood, as if someone’s bloodied hand had touched it. It was missing its counterpart on the other ear, as if it had been taken.

Swans share a love with their mates that humans could only ever hope to have. They pair for life, and their love never wavers, never dulls, never dies. When separated from their mate, swans have been known to die of a broken heart.

He glanced to where her arms once were, attempting to recall the scene of Angela Trowbridge’s death. Angela’s arm was severed sloppily and in a hurry, by a careless ghoul who was interested in little more than to obtain the trophy; to whomever created this gruesome scene, the blood and the humiliation of her body was the trophy. The arms were taken for no reason other than to try and mask their murder as being done by Angela’s killer. 

Will knew. There had yet to be a victim he had left unavenged. While this copycat might have saved themselves for a little longer, there is always a day of reckoning. 

He gave one last glance over the scene, then turned to walk back out of the alley. He didn’t need to see anything more. Will approached Jack with his hands stuffed in his pockets, sighing softly. 

“I have reason to believe that I was right in thinking it was a copycat,” he told Jack, still quite confident in his conclusion.

“A copycat,” interjected Naam before Jack could get a word in. “I agree, this one was a _little_ different from the others, since it looks like it took more time to commit, but… all the marks are there. Stealing limbs, cutting throats, rinkaku RC type… rinkaku type wasn’t publicly disclosed. Unless we had a leak, the copycat would need to know specifics, unless they just got lucky and happened to have the type of kagune involved,” she challenged, folding her clipboard under her arm. 

Jack frowned, apparently satisfied with that, and looked to Will for an answer.

“The copycat knows the killer. Same territory, same gang. That’s how ghouls are. This body was clearly trying to send a message. To us, or to other ghouls.” Will didn’t seem too worried about being challenged. It happened quite often, but he seldom couldn’t quickly explain his — the killer’s — thinking. While it was still possible that the copycat swooped in, it was more likely that the copycat and the original killer knew one another on some level. 

“The arms weren’t severed post-mortem like the others. The other three victims were mutilated after death. The throats were cut only once, and very precisely to minimize suffering. Angela’s killer wasn’t killing for the sake of it. This one… this one likes to cause a scene.” 

Now Naam was apparently impressed. She smiled, eyeing the curly-haired professor and nodding. “Yeah, you make a good point, Mr. Graham. You really are worth your salt. We still need to perform an autopsy, so we can present our findings to you shortly after that,” she carried on, glancing down at her clipboard. “Maybe we can have a little bit more hard evidence to suggest a copycat, though we do already have a lot of smaller suggestions.” 

She turned with her clipboard to her chest, offering a wave as she spun around and returning to Min to present the findings. It was just another thing to look out for, and a reason to be careful with this case.

Will just watched her go, silently wondering what she was thinking as she walked away. It seemed she was being truthful and that she didn’t immediately get annoyed or irritated with him. He always appreciated genuine, straightforward people. 

He looked to Jack again, seeming almost a little smug. “I’d like to accompany them during the autopsy,” he requested. 

Jack, biting his lips and acquiescently nodded, especially since it did seem that his profiler _had_ been right and Jack doubted him anyway, and he didn’t necessarily want to give Will any ammunition with which to force him to admit that fact. “Alright. Aspirin’s in the car, you know where.” He passed Will the keys and pat him on the shoulder once as he passed by to go and check on the proceedings. Usually his profiler needed a minute to recover after empathizing… he was certain Will’s imagination at times frightened him, and honestly, he could respect that. “I’ll be out in twenty or so.”

It was more like forty five, since Jack couldn’t stand to see things wrap up without him. The body, after all evidence was retrieved, photographs taken, and the cleanup crew dispatched, was gone before Jack finally made his way back to the car. The wheels were hot when he touched the pedal, and he was out of there as soon as he could be. This autopsy, he suspected, would be very, very interesting.

This time Jack’s suspicions were spot-on. Naam sought evidence, and apparently, evidence she found. Will quietly leaned on a pillar in the frigid autopsy room, looking just about as simultaneous absent and present as he typically did. 

Honestly, it was kind of endearing to Jack. Nobody was like Will. That’s what made Will… Will. In all his… strangeness and glory. It was shame that Jack seemed to be one of the only people who recognized the harmlessness and value of Will Graham. Him, and maybe, just maybe, Hannibal Lecter too.

Naam, once the clothes were discarded into evidence bags and the blood cleaned off the skin for inspection, began to poke around the throat right away. She wrinkled her nose under the blue mask and furrowed her brow. “Min, look here. Tell me what you see.”

Gently, latex gloves pulled back the perfect slit of flesh concealing the inside edge of the open windpipe. The… _very_ open windpipe.

With ghoul murders, it wasn’t uncommon to cut into the trachea, but usually it didn’t have nearly this much care put into it. Nor was it usually this high on the throat, just a few centimeters beneath the bottom of the larynx, in fact. Right beneath where the vocal cords nestled in their bed of cartilage. If you followed the windpipe up, a much smaller cut could be discerned, especially when agitated with pressure. It was subtle, so one could miss it easily. But there was trauma, some reddened bruising just tucked away in between the pale and pink ridges of the trachea. A perfect little slit right beneath the larynx, and the trauma surrounding the incision suggesting that something was pushed _inside_ the slit, while this person was alive.

“He stopped her from screaming, carefully kept everything intact,” Min calmly pointed out. “Surgical precision. This wasn’t done by your run-of-the-mill ghoul.” 

The murderer manually prevented her from screaming by interrupting her vocal cords. Maybe Naam’s mind was getting away from her, but this… why else would this injury be there, leading right to the vocal cords, but not crucially restricting respiration. She could _breathe_ , and _see,_ and _feel,_ and _struggle._ But Ms. Valdez could not scream.

Will’s expression intensified after the discovery, staring into the open throat of the dead woman.

“This was done by someone who must enjoy inflicting pain, but not the screams,” said Will. “The other three women were done by a tentative, albeit wasteful ghoul. This is another ghoul entirely. A sadist, most likely and most unfortunately. It’s almost impossible to track down a sadist. No real motive or pattern.” 

It was also worth noting that the arms were carefully severed and taken off the crime scene. Now, this was a trait seen by the other three cases, but it was not typical of ghouls to take their food home or to be so wasteful. They would often devour the bodies right then and there, often consuming it in its entirety, or consuming most of it and dragging it off to eat the rest later. A human body could keep a ghoul alive for about a month, and few ate more than they needed. The arms, in this case, were even more carefully removed than the other cases, and were done while the victim was still alive. The original ghoul would not have done that, Will was absolutely certain. The ghoul before sought to minimize the pain of its victims, that was an absolutely crucial part of their method.

Driving home, Will tried to keep himself from overthinking it. If he was right in his assumption that this murderer was an intelligent psychopath, then it was without question that he likely would not kill in such a way again. It was almost as if this copycat was teasing him, throwing a red herring out to see if anyone would believe him when he claimed that it was not the same killer. It seemed that they did, tentatively. However, Will didn't doubt that the media would interpret the murder as being done by the same ghoul. Somewhat annoyed at the thought, he wondered if Freddie Lounds would pick up on the story, and what she might have to say about it. It had been years since Will had hate-read Tattlecrime, but it might be worth a look.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for reading! We are considering doing a reading of this fic and making a podfic for people who prefer listening, so please stay tuned :)


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